


so tired of playing with this bow and arrow

by purplefieldsofclover



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apophenia, Dark, Dom Solas (Dragon Age), Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), F/M, Grief/Mourning, Light BDSM, Lots of plot, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining Solas (Dragon Age), Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Club, Solas Smut Saturday, Spanking, Varric Tethras' Chest Hair, Writer's Block, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28662909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefieldsofclover/pseuds/purplefieldsofclover
Summary: A year later, Ellana is still shaken by the unexpected death of her boyfriend, Cullen. She hasn't been coping well. By chance, she ends up meeting a mysterious stranger who offers her an unusual outlet to explore her grief and fantasies. A complicated relationship develops. Explicit. Modern Thedas AU.
Relationships: Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	1. one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW chapters are marked with a * if you just want to read the story. TW: hints of past dysfunctional family dynamics, A little PTSD, recreational drug use, grief, death, consensual but rough sex.

**one**

Cullen died in a cataclysmic motorcycle accident shortly after his thirty-second birthday. 

Prompted by the police, Ellana went directly to the hospital to identify his body. On arrival, she floated down to a sitting outside a waiting area in the morgue. She had thought to call Cassandra or Josephine, but by the time she got into the cab, she couldn’t think clearly anymore except that she wanted the task to be over as quickly as possible without pomp or circumstance.

 _No need to stop sleeping,_ the mortician had awkwardly repeated in a way she couldn’t tell was an attempt at a joke or not. _Anyhow,_ they explained, It had been an ugly death. _The asphalt scraped away parts of his face to the bone if only he had worn a helmet._

Her friends expressed admiration for Ellana’s stoicism. She didn't cry the entire reading of her eulogy of Cullen’s brief but meaningful life. Her voice was stiff, aware of the many eyes watching her sum up the total of Cullen’s accomplishments as though they were weightless, pithy things. Cullen was kind, he was caring, and he was a selfless public defender. To her audience, her unrealized future as Cullen’s wife was an inevitable and openly acknowledged fact. 

Cullen’s sister complained. _Clipped and forced._ _A simple list of facts that everyone present knew_ : For months, Ellana would obsess about the off-hand comments, thinking that it was almost as if his sibling knew that she was abusing her authority to say such things. That the intimacy between her and Cullen had been compromised. 

Ellana found the diamond engagement ring in his dresser drawer the week before the accident—stumbling on the black velvet box while packing away fresh laundry. The moment she pulled it open, Ellana had a panic attack, chest heaving on the floor as she came to the sudden and unrelenting conclusion that she would say no; that she _must_ say no. 

That when Cullen had leaned down to kiss her goodbye on the cheek before going for a ride, Ellana had clenched her eyes shut not as an expression of love but in dread of the inevitable confession that she wanted another life. 

A year after Cullen’s death, Ellana hadn’t told anyone about the episode or the ring she kept locked in her jewelry box. Not her friends Cassandra and Josephine. Not Dorian or Bull. Not her psychologist. Ellana thought it too shameful that she would have doubt. The secret took its toll. Over the past year, she’s lost twenty pounds and plucked a bald spot from behind her ear. 

Ellana acknowledges she could have written a better eulogy. 

_It wasn’t enough_ , as Cullen’s sister complained, stuffing a piece of cake into her mouth, a lick of frosting stuck on the corner of her mouth awkwardly for the next half-an-hour. 

After all, Cullen's girlfriend (for she never refers to Ellana by name) was a critically acclaimed writer who published a debut novel at the prodigious age of twenty-seven. Indeed, if anyone can add any eloquence to this terrible, life-altering circumstance, it would be _her_. 

As Ellana pulls back from the world, she’s aware that her friends are concerned. They send text messages indicating as such. When she doesn’t respond, they send more succinct notes like _thinking of you_ and _circling back._ Instead of engaging, she moves them into a tidy folder to consume when she’s ready. Whenever that is, the gossip that she’s slowly losing it doesn’t make her affable. Nor do statements that she should consider herself lucky that she was still young enough to meet someone new if she made an effort. 

She won’t. 

Dorian remains the only person that Ellana can regularly tolerate. He’s not sanctimonious, and he’s not forceful. He understands that she is unwilling to talk—if not more accurately unable. He doesn’t ask anything from her except that she keeps him company as he works shifts at Ataash, the sex club that his long-term partner, _the_ Iron Bull, owns.

Ellana makes drinks when it’s busy—and helps with clean-up—but usually, she can be found a few nights a week making quick line-by-line edits of bound manuscripts, chatting with Dorian in between bar rushes. Ellana often wondered what her clients would say if they knew their manuscripts were edited at a sex club. She’s built a career as a well-regarded freelance copy-editor, paid well for her ability to bring cogent marketability to knotty texts. 

Ataash—qunlat wordplay translating into Common as both whip and glory—isn’t particularly raunchy for a sex and fetish club. It’s the type of establishment where known members frequent it to work out their kinks and fantasies in near privacy with other like-minded individuals.

It's a simple setup. There is a long black-top bar, polished to a glossy finish, a dance floor that’s barely in use, and a few tables and chairs where the regular kinksters hang out. Most of the more scandalous sex happens in what Bull refers to as playrooms; Ellana’s watched a few scenes that have taken place in the common room area, but most of the time, she blocks out the reverberating moans.

Other than a quick errand or her psychologist’s office, it’s the only place she frequents with any regularity. She considered not returning when a woman was used as a coffee table, balancing a whole swath of drinks, the condensation dripping down her back, but over time, Ellana has come to respect the participants both for their diligence and discipline. Every time she watches a sub follow a command, like bending over, she’s amazed at the willpower such an action would take.

It’s an expression of devotion she finds both titillating and frightening. A type of fidelity that she believes herself incapable of.

Sometimes one of the doms–much to Dorian’s amusement, it’s always one of the doms–comes up to ask her what she is working on when they stop by for a drink. They’ll chat a bit, and then they’ll go back to pouring hot wax down their submissive’s chest—a pleasant little tête-à-tête. 

This night felt different. 

“Are you looking for a partner?” A man’s voice behind her gets her attention. In all her time haunting the bar, none had dared to ask Ellana that explicitly before. Only hinted. 

A shiver runs up Ellana’s spine, causing her to shake in a way that prevents her from looking up at the stranger. The question is effortless, radiating a charisma that Dorian has confided in Ellana is characteristic of what he considers to be a good dom. 

Ellana feels his arm accidentally graze hers—a sudden flash of heat and fabric on bare skin.

“That was not intentional,” the man explains. Ellana notes the absent apology. 

She notices his eyes first. Blue and shocking for how pale they are. His pupils are blown wide open. An act Ellana finds violent for how little control they offer their subject. An open rebellion of admission that his hard face is neither capable nor willing to make. 

The man in front of Ellana looks to be carved from stone as if a sculptor had imagined the ideal man and used that as a template to chisel out his cheekbones and aquiline nose. His head shaved smooth, adding to the sharpness of his features. He’s handsome, but it’s the way that he carries himself that attracts Ellana the most. It is a type of grace that men can rarely achieve, a balance of strength and elegance—neither overpowering one another. Judging from his appearance, he’s about a decade and a half older than her but in remarkable shape.

“Look, sorry, I’m a tourist. I’m keeping Dorian company for the evening. Sometimes when it’s busy, I help out behind the bar.”

Ellana is careful to put down a firm boundary right away. Dorian has been teasing her lately about getting into the BDSM lifestyle. To avoid a legal hassle at the prompting of Bull, she had completed the required medical paperwork and signed a thick stack of waivers the club required for access. 

“Oh, that’s too bad.” the man replied, leaning over, resting his cheek against his hand. His interest undiminished despite the refusal. “My name is Solas if there are to be introductions.” 

Ellana puts down her pen. She is a plain woman—even when she bothers to wear make-up. She has unremarkable brown eyes and dirty blonde hair that she’s messily pulled back from her face that grows thinner as she approaches thirty. Ellana cannot comprehend why this man is staring back at her with unadulterated lust. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ellana” A pause. “I’ve not seen you here before.” 

“I was out of town for a year. Work.” Solas responds. His way of speaking is deliberate. Although the sentence is simple, Ellana visualizes each word lined up as if it was etched into glass—permanent and unchangeable. 

“What will it be, Solas?” Dorian interrupts drying a wine glass. He’s wearing a black shirt that’s cut too low. Black ringlets of hair showing. The gold of his earring dangling from his left ear catches the chandelier and cascades down onto the black marble bar top, spilling on top of Ellana’s clenched fingers. 

“A glass of water if you don’t mind.” 

Ellana continues to watch the exchange as if it weren't merely transactional with the type of rapt attention she had struggled to maintain.

The moment that Dorian retreats to the other side of the bar, Ellana can feel Solas examining her again, his eyes following the line of throat over her exposed clavicle.

“I admit I have seen you here a few times—always working.” Solas continued. “You have such indomitable focus.” 

“Thank you, I think...” The statement from any other man would have come out as too strong, but somehow the statement from this Solas makes her stupidly happy. 

“May I buy you a drink?” 

The offer makes Ellana cognizant of two contrary forces within herself. First, she is unsure she has the qualities that would make for a good sub; she is the kind of woman who would not do something simply because a man told her to. Secondly, Ellana is starting to believe it might be nice to be given terms of achievement that are as obtainable as sucking someone’s cock. 

“No, thank you,” Ellana admitted, pointing to her club soda. 

“Ah.” 

“That is to say I’ve never had any alcohol to drink,” She clarifies, unsure what the admission is worth. He has her talking in a way she hasn’t for months. Chatty and care-free. “At least, I've worked in restaurants and had a taste here or there to check for flavor, but it’s never interested me. I sometimes smoke—” 

“Oh, I understand,” Solas insists softly, picking up his glass. He drinks half of it in a single gulp. “Do you mind if I sit with you a bit before my client arrives?” 

“Please,” Ellana said nervously, moving her giant stack of papers to accommodate him. 

The two sit in companionable silence. Solas turns to stare at the back of the bar. Ellana does her best to ignore him. A dance emerges between them, where she’ll turn to look at Solas when she thinks he isn’t looking, and he does the same in return. The last year drops away as Ellana traces the line of his profile. 

“If you don’t mind, where are you from?” Ellana curiously asked when he caught her gaze. “I can’t place your—”

“Accent? I’m from a nameless farming community in the north, between Orlais and Tevinter.”

“Oh.” She breathed, thoughtlessly picking up her red pen again. It scrapes the surface of the paper, bleeding slightly at the edges. 

Ellana has only been able to dissect things since Cullen has died, taking them apart in a way that shouldn’t be wholly natural or kind: people, words, ideas. Anything and everything Ellana comes across is interrogated and broken down into small digestible parts. She can’t help but pick at anything and everyone like a scab until it no longer resembles the thing or person in front of her. Her whole being is so fixated on this practice that she can no longer be generative, even with something as simple as small talk. 

“You neglected a comma splice,” Solas pointed to a section of text with a playful arch of his eyebrow. 

It’s a long paragraph where the writer debates if knowledge can come from the senses or if there is, in fact, a reality behind what can be directly apprehended. Ellana doesn’t have much investment in the metaphysical debate, but she is impressed at Solas’ ability to gaze down at the text and spot the small omission over her shoulder. Usually, she’d be annoyed, but she likes this man. 

“Thank you,” she smiles weakly, jotting down the miniature c and s to indicate to the author that this sentence, too, must change. 

Solas is about to ask another question, his lips parting, closing when Bull taps him on the shoulder. “Your next appointment is here.” 

“Another time,” Solas says to her as he stands, smoothing an already immaculate white button-down, a black sport coat, and a matching pair of trousers. 

Later, after the bar is closed, Ellana will ask Bull about the wry smile he flashed her before returning to the host stand to greet incoming members and turn away the occasional interloper. It’s a knowing smile, one that reminds her of a parent catching a child doing something naughty and enjoying it. He pretended not to know what she’s talking about. 

They are sitting in the living room over the bar. She can hear the door in front open and close downstairs. Dorian is sitting in an armchair, while Bull lounges on the floor next to Ellana swigging a cold beer. 

“I saw you and Solas flirting earlier,” Dorian teased in response, twisting his mustache under a low table lamp. 

“This is a little weird, but we once thought you’d like him. Thought about setting you up with him.” Bull admitted, before correcting, “Like on a normal date.” 

“Is what happens here not considered dating?” Ellana wondered out loud. She knows Bull and Dorian engage in rough sex are part of the “scene” and are basically married. The different nuances are lost to her. 

Bull shrugs. “Sometimes. Other times BDSM is more about consensus than romance. Sometimes, like our relationship, there is a mixture of play and partnership. Lots of contexts.” 

“Visceral sensation,” Dorian suggests with a shrug that mirrors his partner. “Solas seemed to like you.” 

“What do you know about him?” 

“He’s been in the scene as long as I have, that is to say, a long time. Came from a buddy of mine’s club a few years back when it closed. He’s quiet and respectful, and popular but mostly retired,” Bull says, throwing a bottle of beer down his throat. 

“Retired? This isn’t—?”

“No, he’s not a professional dom. He does something brainy,” Bull continues. “Teacher maybe, but I didn’t pry too much into his personal life. He’s only in a couple of times a month.” 

“Ah,” Ellana pauses, steeling herself for the confession, “He asked if I wanted a partner.” 

“Do you want a partner? It might be good to try something different.” Dorian shrugs. 

Ellana knows Dorian and Bull think she needs something to center herself, even a constructive vice, like rough sex. It works for them, so why not her? She doesn’t answer the question, refusing to be vulnerable. Instead, she tenderly kisses each man goodbye on the cheek, makes plans to come back soon. “I haven’t given it much thought, but I don’t want to keep you both up. I’ll be going.

She walks down the back stairs. The bar closed about twenty minutes ago, and a lot of the regulars cluster around the exit. Some nod to her, and she nods back. It’s almost morning. Birds will be out soon, digging for worms around the trees planted into the sidewalks. 

Another block, and she’s home. At the bus stop, she is surprised to see the Solas waiting. He’s not wearing a jacket and has an expensive-looking leather messenger bag thrown over a shoulder. He waves. His cuffed sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing sinewy muscles. Ellana pauses. Staring, not moving. The moment she remembers herself, she waves in response. It’s enough of a prompt that Solas approaches her, graceful the way a dancer might be. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” He cocks his head. He doesn’t look worried, not in any obvious way, but Ellana appreciates the concession even if his interpretation is incorrect. 

“You didn’t startle me.” 

“The bus won’t be here a while yet.” He halted. “Would you care for someone to walk you home?”

“No, I live close by.” That was all Ellana had to say, but she wanted to keep going. “I’m fine.” Adding one more polite phrase in a timid voice, “thank you.” 

Solas rubbed his hand over the back of his head, his lips parting as if to say something and then snapping shut. By the look on his face, Ellana thought it must be important. She wanted to know. 

“You won’t offend me.” She declared with a huff and a small tap of her foot. She’s wrapped her arms around her as the wind whips about. It’s not cold yet, but it will be soon. 

“I was going to say you look very pretty in the moonlight.” He admits with a dry laugh. “Not very witty, so I thought better of it.” 

“Oh. That’s nice.” 

It’s more than nice. Cullen had always thought to say things like that to Ellana, but she always suspected that he did it out of a sense of obligation or duty. Ellana found her comparison cruel at first, but seeing how Solas looked back at her makes her blush and forget the last year entirely. His gaze is intense as if he is the only person who has ever seen her. 

She has a precipitous thought that they’ll kiss, and they do. All Solas did was lean in, and their faces smashed together in a wild and exuberant embrace. A wordless miracle, she thinks, for its hunger. It is the sort of encounter Ellana knows the moments that it happens, she’ll hold onto for the rest of her life; that the feeling of Solas’ hands sliding down her sides to pull her into himself could sustain her for months. The realization hit her exactly in the gut. 


	2. two

**two**

“I met someone,” Ellana announced unexpectedly. 

It is her weekly appointment at her therapist’s office. The room is packed full of pastel and floral finishings that oozed comfort. Her psychologist, Wynne, had a perfectly straight white bob pinned back with gigantic hair clips that made her look especially agreeable and trustworthy. Ellana had seen Wynne before Cullen was killed. It was her third year of active treatment, and she had made very little progress before or after his death.

“What are they like?” Wynne looks up expectantly over her clipboard. Although Ellana doesn’t want to make assumptions, she knows that her psychologist loves her in an unspoken way that a mother might, that although a consummate professional, she is one of Wynne’s favorite clients. Most of the time, the belief has sustained Ellana. Other times, like now, it makes her feel like a burden. 

Ellana searches for the right words to describe what happened at the bus stop. She’s quaking a bit recalling the encounter. How Solas suddenly pulled away uneasily as if she had taken something from him. _The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered._ Ellana hadn’t responded right away. Too perplexed in the aftermath of kissing a stranger on the street. She flinched and thought to cry—found such a reaction to be performative—so instead, she stared stupidly at the man in front of her. 

_Please, I didn’t mean_ _—_ Solas stuttered. His eyes softened as if to call her back. Ellana could tell by how he slanted his head in her direction that he wanted to talk or explain. Not as an act of pity, but as an acknowledgment that he too finds what passed between them to be holy. 

_No, it’s alright._ She insisted, even if it wasn’t, turning on her heel towards the direction of her apartment and stomping up to the top floor. She needed to lie down, and fast, the world had rapidly changed to her, every perception taking on a new dimension of urgency almost as if colors had appeared out of nowhere. 

“We didn’t talk long,” Ellana offered, “He was enigmatic but seemed smart.” Another pause as Wynne expectantly glanced up at her over the everpresent clipboard. “Handsome.” Adding “very” after as if to acknowledge that she was capable of emotion once again. A hint that Wynne did not notice _—_ or pretended not to. 

“Do you think you will see him again?” 

“I’m not sure. Is it too soon after Cullen?” 

“I think you are the only one who can decide that. Does it bother you to be vulnerable?” 

It’s a theme that the two have addressed many times in her appointments. Ellana’s inability to be open about her feelings is an internalized behavior from a dysfunctional family home. Her resentment of her drunken father and complicit mother. 

“We kissed,” Ellana admits not answering the question. “I think he liked it.” 

Ellana both enjoys and bristles at the expression flickering across her psychologist’s face. It’s proud, but in a way that falsely assumes Ellana is beginning to wake from her grief. That she is even grieving the loss of a person, not the extent of her betrayal of a man who loved her unconditionally. 

“Why do you think he wouldn’t?” 

“The book I am editing draws several interesting conclusions on the nature of reality.” Ellana stumbles. The words are heavy. Too enormous for the point at hand. It’s a deflection technique she’s developed—one that riles Wynne. One that Cullen found fascinating. “It’s on the theory of metaphysics that argues that—” 

“Ellana,” Wynne interjects. Her shoulders are tense, and her irritation is clear. 

“That the experience of things is only the appearance of that thing, and not related to the essence of the actual thing itself. That is to say, the subject or object we are addressing is only a constellation of our own thoughts and feelings. That all of knowledge is a subjective interpretation of stimuli and sensation. That space and time, while empirical, are mostly a construct of cognition.” 

It’s a boring entry-level argument that any intro to philosophy student could or would make, but Ellana likes the simple rubric of it in interpreting the nature of reality. She thinks it is as simple as adding plastic compartments to a sock drawer. 

“How do you relate this to what you’re currently experiencing with this man who asked you out?” 

Ellana hums a bit, rubbing her forefinger against her thumb as if she were flicking a cigarette. 

“There is an alternative theory, one that argues that there is a reality beyond sensation—” 

A chime goes off, signaling the appointment is over. It’s soft and hushed, and Ellana’s body always stiffens when she hears it. It is an exact replica of the timer her mother used while cooking dinner. She hasn’t told Wynne this, thinking it impolite, but she also thinks it is a healthy capstone reminder of why she signed up for therapy in the first place. 

“Alright. That is all the time we have for today.” Wynne sighs and then pleads. “I understand that you are still processing. Next week, we should talk about—”

“OK,” Ellana cuts Wynne off, stands up, and exits the office without glancing back or ceremony. She can hear Wynne sigh again, knows she is losing patience with her, and that she will be more aggressive at her next appointment, a discussion that Ellana is happy to put off for another week. 

Ellana waits for the bus, goes back to her apartment, and climbs to the top floor. She sits on her padded window seat, hanging precariously out like she did a few nights ago after encountering Solas at the bus stop—to smoke a cigarette and then another. The night she met Solas, she watched as he stood, unaware of her gaze, until the late bus—the last scheduled for that evening—swept him away. The headlights reflecting off the street in the final moments of darkness. 

If Ellana had been honest with Wynne earlier, she would have said that she’s already made up her mind but didn’t trust the instinct. That she, as a matter of experimentation, wanted to give up her willpower to this man, in some ways, to see if he could break it. None had before. She would have confessed the magnitude of her fantasizing about how she had lost hours to it. That, unlike the metaphysics book she is editing, knows without a doubt that the knowledge does not have to be directly apprehended to have a shape and that her evolving thoughts are evidence of this.

She would have told Wynne about the elaborate and violently erotic scenes she has dredged up; She would have shared the distinct pattern of them. Ellana always starts by recalling the woman who had appeared behind Bull for Solas’ appointment and comparing herself to her. They were unlike. Solas’s client was a brunette human woman wearing an expensive sheath dress that hung just so on her fit body. She had been a little older and self-assured in a way that Ellana is convinced she will never be capable of.

Somewhere along the way, Ellana replaces herself with the woman and imagines how Solas would put his hand on her back and whisper something in her ear that makes her laugh. That they would look at each other as if accustomed to each other’s moods and desires. 

Ellana had to search the internet to understand what might happen after the door to the playroom shut. She had sat at her computer watching women getting spanked and flogged and all manner of unseemly things she had never consciously considered tantalizing before. She tries to place Solas in that violence, rejecting any discovery at first but then understanding that the brutality was part of her attraction. That the threat of annihilation as his hands traced over her body might subsume her entirely. 

It’s not a new fantasy, but the inability to reconcile it weighs heavy on Ellana, and she searches her apartment for something to do. 

Her cat, Andraste, is asleep and uninterested in anything. It’s barely ten a.m., and Ellana had finished her work for the week. Everything in her apartment is pristine and sterile. To avoid writing, she has done all she can to ensure the apartment's cleanliness. 

After Cullen died, Ellana moved into a one-bedroom. She did not have pictures or memorabilia—not even a framed artwork was hung on the walls. There was a small kitchen off to the side, a bedroom with a bed and nightstand—clothes arranged in her closet by type and then length and then color—the living room dressed only with a square wooden table and chairs placed in the center surrounded by uniform bookshelves packed from floor to ceiling. Everything Ellana owned that was present in her apartment was utilitarian in purpose and use.

Without a chore to do, Ellana decided to take another shower. The soft hum of the water cascading to the tile floor makes her feel uneasy. She drenches herself and goes through the rituals of getting ready again. She takes out a pair of black slacks and a soft sweater with marbled charcoal-colored yarn. She brushes her hair and sweeps it all back into a straight-enough ponytail. To finish, she takes out her single tube of lipstick, used for the first time that afternoon, and paints her lips a brazen red. 

She still has an hour until she has to leave. Ellana thinks to go early and circle the restaurant, but instead lays in the middle of the bathroom floor, the bathmat uncomfortably askew underneath her head, and stares up at the ceiling until it is time to leave. 

Josephine is the daughter of wealthy business executives and a stereotypical gallerista. Cassandra is an actuary. As she steps into the restaurant and sees them waiting, Ellana wonders what both would say if she told them that she had met someone at a sex club, kissed him wildly on the street, and then vanished as if nothing happened. She can picture the way that Cassandra’s eyes will narrow in concern, and Josephine will act shocked yet be entirely absorbed in the clandestine setting. 

Ellana finds her feelings to be somewhat in the middle of the two. She likes Solas but is unsure why. On the other hand, she wonders what it would be like to be submissive not only as a subject but as a philosophy. 

Cassandra and Josephine are already there when Ellana arrives, sitting at a square table. Cassandra is holding the menu up while Josephine twirls a long black curl in her fingers. The three women were once inseparable, but lately, Ellana has found it hard to keep up with text messages and invites, finding it hard to agree to a shopping trip. It’s all too bright and too loud, and she desperately wants to be in bed. Ellana had frequented lunch spots like this before. It is full of thick white table cloths and silk plants in silver mercury-glass jars. The windows are open to the early fall air and for a moment, she has slipped into another happier time in her life without the dire circumstances she now finds herself in—waitstaff with matching aprons flitter about the tables to jot down overpriced entrees on small pads. 

“There you are!” Josephine squeals in a high-pitch voice before drawing her in for a tight embrace. Cassandra joins in, her arms looser but caring. It had been at least three or four months since she had seen either woman.

“Hi, it's so good to see you,” Ellana sheepishly returns. Josephine is glancing nervously up at her the entire time. Of all her friends, the Antivaan beauty had taken Cullen’s death the hardest. Her boyfriend, Blackwall, in elite law enforcement, had been close with the public defender. They had worked on a few cases together and been regular dinner guests. 

The girls exchange pithy small talk as one might expect for their gender. Or at least, Ellana terms it as such. She used to have more patience for the performance and found solidarity in the whispered emotional confessions and high-pitched cadence. Nothing on the menu is appetizing. Ellana skims the whole thing twice before landing on a bland chicken-caesar salad. When it comes, it’s plated beautifully. Shredded chicken and hand-made croutons and half-moons of red tomatoes. It’s something she would have eaten with relish before, but now all Ellana can do is try and muster the necessary concentration to follow along the conversation. It’s not that she doesn’t love Cassandra and Josephine. She does, ardently. Only being near them is a constant threat to Ellana’s poorly gathered stability. That at any moment, one might turn to her and understand that she is a fraud. 

“Ellana,” Josephine says mid-meal. She’s holding a glass of champagne in her hands. Ellana superstitiously fixates on the bubbles as if that will help her keep track of the words. “I need to tell you something. Blackwall proposed and, well—” 

Josephine extended her perfectly manicured hand for Ellana to examine a ring. It’s a three-carat ruby cut in a marquise setting. Huge and glimmering in the afternoon light. She doesn’t know how she missed the gargantuan stone. A flicker of happiness for her friend is stifled by Ellana’s realization that the milestone signaled that life was hurtling forward and that she needed to pretend convincingly that she is not shocked by it. 

“Congratulations!” 

“You seem a bit better,” Cassandra observes as they walk down the main stretch of Denerim after lunch. Its skyscrapers are mixed in with old wooden buildings with medieval-looking kitsch for tourists to purchase. “More like yourself.” 

“Thank you,” Ellana says, following a line-up of yellow taxis. She wants to push back at her oldest friend, to say that she does not actually resemble anyone like she used to be. That person is never coming back. 

“Josephine wanted to ask you to be in the wedding. Was very conflicted about it. She thought—” 

“Not including me was a kindness, really, ” Ellana confirms in a flash of who she used to be, forthright and understanding. “I want to participate—it has nothing to do with Cullen, but I can’t—.” 

“You were never able to.” Cassandra nods sympathetically with a small laugh. “Always intense and unable to follow orders, you’d be a terrible bridesmaid. I guess we have that in common.” Cassandra wraps an arm around Ellana’s waist as they meander near the sea. “You know you can always call. We don’t have to do anything—” 

Ellana reaches over and hugs Cassandra, kissing her affectionately on the cheek Orlesian style. It is the most warmth she has been able to muster for the first long while. She gives it to Cassandra as an offering, thinking perhaps that the gesture will convey how much she cares for her friends, despite not being able to show it outwardly. How sorry she is, for instance, to have missed Cassandra’s thirtieth birthday because she was too overcome with the act of getting fully dressed that she had sat at her kitchen table setting five-minute reminders on her phone to leave her apartment long after the party was over. 

  
  
  



	3. three*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

**three***

It was Halloween. That evening Ataash would throw a party. Ellana would attend. 

In the week since meeting Solas, she had learned from Dorian that he only came to the club on Fridays, a day she rarely is at the club given that Dorian only covers the occasional weekend shift. After all, he’s an artist and is only bartending to help Bull out. 

Dorian had called Ellana at the supermarket. In the background, she could hear the clattering of metal as he placed egg cartons and a jug of milk in the center. _It’s going to be busy, so I am going to cover the bar, maybe you want to come as a guest?_ Ellana was about to refuse politely, but Dorian kept talking _Your crush will be there. He asked about you._ Ellana swallowed nervously, muttering for clarification so quietly Dorian made her repeat the question. _Your name. He wanted to make sure he remembered it correctly._

Ellana arrived early at the party. Dorian hated bar prep, and Ellana liked her affection for him to be useful. Dorian sat on the other side of the bar, watching as she peeled and quartered lemons and limes, dumped containers of sugared cherries into small plastic containers underneath the bar., and poured out ice from gigantic plastic bags. The rituals were familiar and easy, and it helped quell her unsettled feelings about what might unfold as the evening progressed. 

The club opened. An hour passed, and then another. Ellana made drinks and smiled so much her face ached. Finally, Bull came around with one of the other bartenders named Zevran and told her to take it easy for the night. He is surprised, yet delighted, to have Ellana wrap her arms around his solid middle and say thank you. Patting her back, he tells her to get lost with a coarse laugh. 

She skims the crowd. Solas is tall and distinctive. Ellana thinks she would see him, so she goes into the side alley to smoke a cigarette. She's wearing her best dress. It’s black velvet, purchased for a wedding. The bodice is fitted tightly to push her breasts up to swell over a square neckline. The voluminous full skirt rustles when she walks. 

It was too cold to be outside in as little clothing as Ellana has on, but she enjoys the sensation of it after the hotness of bodies pressed together in the bar. She steps down into the cobblestone street. A few bits of dried leaves mixed in with trash resemble confetti. 

Ellana sways a bit in the empty alleyway as she smokes a cigarette until a familiar voice interrupts her. 

“It was unlike me to get carried away.” An expectant pause follows. “It affected me deeply.” 

Ellana turns to face Solas. His expression is placid, but his mouth quirks up in a manner she interprets as hopeful. An expression she thinks demonstrates that he had thought about her in the passing week as much as she did him. She stands in place as silently Solas draws in closer, inches away from her, to lean against the building's brick wall crossing his arms.

He looks more like a statue than on the night they met. His face so tranquil that Ellana thinks only an artist could render such an expression. 

“I know,” She says as if something wordless and psychic had passed between them that they had discussed at length meeting at this particular space and time in meticulous detail. 

“You’re slowly killing yourself.” Solas admonished, grimacing at the cigarette in her hand, his tone flat but eyes playful, 

“I know,” she repeats, this time adding remorse to the assertion. 

Solas pursed his lips, observing her. His gaze became harder as she flicked the butt into the alleyway, stomping on it with her square heel.

The distance between their bodies diminished as she stepped even closer until she was looking up at his perfectly-shaved jawline. It was the scene on the street, only different. This time Ellana was daring him. Can tell he likes that specific sort of attention by the way his muscles tighten. It kills her not to reach out and kiss him again instantly so she lights another cigarette.

“Quit smoking.” Solas exhaled in command. It was a test, Ellana knew, to see if she would listen to him. If it was as simple as making an invitation. To gauge if she wanted him and the particular type of erotic brutality he could offer. 

She was easy and crushed the cigarette under her foot. 

“I have been thinking about what you asked me at the bar about wanting a partner,” Ellana admitted.“I might be—” Ellana shrugged, trying to keep her voice casual. 

“I require you to articulate what you want clearly.” 

“I’m not sure of the nomenclature, but I’d like to—”

“—have a session with me?” Solas asked, bemused.

Ellana nods forcefully. 

He reaches out and cups her face. Ellana rests against his fingers as if they were the only thing capable of holding her weight up. As if she was immediately unable to stand by herself. She closes her eyes and feels Solas crouch down to kiss her. The pressure is so light Ellana briefly thinks she is imagining the touch, but the soft hum he makes when his lips converge with hers asserts it as real. It’s still as inexplicable to her as it had been the first time. Confounding that something so simple could rile her up. 

“Do you understand what you are asking?” 

“I do—I did all the paperwork.” Ellana jokes in an allusion to the medical forms and detailed disclosures that Bull makes all the regulars sign. She had even completed the necessary interview and safety tutorials. 

Solas laughs with wonder. “We could go to dinner. If you prefer. This doesn’t have to be—” 

“Please,” She begs in a voice that felt more like spilling a secret than making an assertion. “I want this.” A pause, and she pushes forward with all the considerable stubbornness she is capable of, “Don’t you?” 

Solas takes her by the hand as if to call her bluff—and wordlessly leads her through the club, past a bemused Dorian who waves at them behind the bar, and down a long winding hallway to a closed door. Ellana had never been back in this particular playroom before. She knows that most of the regulars have their favorite, and that must be Solas’. 

The room was as large as her apartment bedroom. It was filled with seemingly miscellaneous furniture, a large padded bench at the center and a long table shoved to the side. On one wall was laid a cross that Ellana recognized from an evening that she watched a woman hang from it in the entry space, the pink cleft between her legs splayed for all to see. Ellana felt a little faint remembering that, imagining what it would like for her to be in that position. Ponders if Solas would do that to her and begins to question if she should keep hurtling forward. 

“You’ve never done anything like this before?” 

Ellana thinks that should be obvious to Solas by the way she’s refusing to make eye contact out of politeness mixed with fear. She wanted to tell Solas that she’d only ever slept with a few people, mostly one man, who was interested in nothing but vanilla sex. He was kind but bland in his interests, and, once, when Ellana had requested being tied up, he had balked. 

She doesn’t. 

“No, I’ve researched. Read swaths of very filthy literature,” She didn’t mean to sound cheeky, but it comes out as so. As if to scold Solas for his doubt. The tone earns her a chuckle. 

“A first step would be picking a safe word,” Solas said nonchalantly as he shut the door before smoothly walking to a wardrobe. Ellana could make out the sounds of him taking items out, laying them down on the table, and then putting them away again. She can feel his thoughts. His hesitation. It's making her more desperate. 

“Felandaris?” 

She picks the name of a weed at random. Her long-hidden accent heavy when she says the word. She searches for some hidden meaning at its selection but finds none except for how it grew plentifully in the fields of the reservation she’s from, the subject of small stupid nursery rhymes like _a little stalk of Felendaris makes one a little careless._

“You’re Dalish,” he exclaims in surprise, searching her face for _vallaslin._ Ellana never went through the ritual, escaping the reservation as soon as possible. Functionally, she's in exile. Ellana privately acknowledged the fact, thinking it amusing that this might be the sort of activity her family thinks she might get into amongst the _shems._

“Yes, that’s a complicated story.” Ellana nods. He cocks his head. She thinks he’s about to ask, wants to know.

Instead, he points to a swath of floor in front of the divan and says, “kneel.” 

She hesitates. 

“Was that unclear?” Solas repeats. The words bite, but he’s not mocking her. “Kneel, there.” 

Ellana is surprised at how fast she complies with the order. The hard floor hurts her knees, but she admires the fabric of her dress, splaying out elegantly around her. She smugly thinks she must look like a rather pretty picture and folds her hands in front of her docile, like an old fashion magazine for homemakers would recommend a woman does in obeisance. Not to Solas, but the moment. Or so she tells herself. 

The two parse out some of her limits. The whole discussion is so clinical and academic, except that she’s kneeling before Solas the entire time. It makes her body ache. She’s certain he’s done that intentionally so that she’ll have to stare at his feet when she admits that she wants him to fuck her, even if he says with a gentle laugh, not tonight. 

Ellana knows their conversation is coming to an abrupt end when Solas starts to list a litany of rules, makes her confirm her safe word again—affirms that she only has to whisper the word, and things end, no questions asked. That he’s not going to push her that evening, but she can’t be sure how she’ll react. He tells Ellana that she is to call him sir and only sir. That he rules this room, and she is to obey. Solas asks if she is ready, and she quietly murmurs yes.

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, _sir._ ”

In a moment, the air transformed into something dangerous and erotic. 

“Do you consent?” Solas asked. 

“I do, sir.” 

“Good girl.” He whispers. Ellana smirks at the diminutive, thinks for a moment at how strange it is to be robbed of her name and given such a title. Solas cups her jaw again and examines her face as it for a stray piece of lint. His face has become hard, pale blue eyes boring into her, offering no clue about what might happen next. 

“Stand up,” Solas says. Ellana rises to her feet, can feel herself staring back at him in disbelief. It’s not at the order, but the poise he has while he gives it. She had expected Solas to bark at her. Yell, even. Instead, he’s quiet and composed. Ellana thinks Solas would make a dangerous tyrant. One that doesn’t have to push for what he wants through brute strength, capable of the type of concerted willpower that only needs to ask pleasantly for a country to fall, and it would gladly for his pleasure. 

Ellana is immediately aware of the things she’d do if Solas asked it of her. Tetters on the sharp edge of that thought and then gives fully into it. 

“Undress.” His voice is still quiet. Ellana freezes, and he laughs. “Already so unruly, undress.” She’s trying not to get distracted by Solas leaning back on the divan to ogle her. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Ellana unties the ribbon straps that delicately fall over her pale shoulders and grasps for the zipper on her dress. It’s easy for her to see how this is cruelty, to make her do it herself as he watches. Flattening her only to be a conduit of his desire. She’s not sure if she’s supposed to put a show on or not and slides the metal zipper down slowly as her hands shake, not breaking eye contact the entire time, even as her dress drops to the floor with a soft whoosh. 

She hadn’t worn a bra, not that she needed to, and the sudden exposure of her breasts to the air in the room is sudden and unexpected. She stifles a gasp, trying not to let it out, her hand coming back up to her mouth. 

“Do you think that is something to hide from me?” 

Ellana pauses to respond. She’s only in her opaque tights and underwear. She is wearing a pair of high-waisted black cotton panties that didn’t seem overtly fancy or sexy, but she’s glad for the extra coverage at the moment. 

“Turn around when you take those off,” Solas commands, his hand is up to his lips as if he is deep in thought. 

Ellana can feel her face go red, realizing what that view would be like. She complies despite her stomach lurching. Turning and reaching down to strip off her opaque tights and underwear in a clumsy but single sweep. She thinks Solas might comment on the delivery, but he doesn’t. She stands, and he tells her to face the wall and stop moving when she’s not sure to do, says that he’ll tell her what he wants her to do when she should know it. He stands suddenly. The room blurs. 

She wants Solas to touch her, to stop whatever game he’s playing now as he circles her for what seems like hours. He refuses except to occasionally run a finger up her spine and over her shoulder line until she’s on the verge of begging for more. She tries not to give away how relieved he is when he reaches to trace the roundness of her breasts in admiration, his fingers tightening but not pinching her hardened nipples. Ellana already forgets herself. She’s already swept up in the feelings shooting through her body as he adjusts her to stand more straight, move her hands palm up. “Still now,” he instructed when he finished. 

“Yes.” She responded confidently. She’s so unused to being handled she’s trembling wildly. A small tap of his palm on her upper thigh, and she added. “Sir.” 

“One strike. A pity as that is the easiest rule.” His eyes light up as he stares at her, signaling that he knows her failure is inevitable. Ellana tries to look penitent but finds it hard for her to manifest the necessary deference thinking it a silly construct. He can tell she’s failing to comply internally. “Three strikes, and you earn a punishment. You’re already at two, if you weren't aware, given the ill-advised cigarette.” 

Ellana thinks to protest and try to negotiate that the cigarette doesn’t count, but she’s distracted by Solas’ fingers weaving through her hair at the base of her neck. They close on the strands pulling her forward as the other runs over her ribs. He sighs deeply, openly into her ear. Music betraying his lust as he plans a single wet kiss right on the edge of her throat. 

“Oh,” she moaned as Solas’ lips moved up her throat, taking the soft part of her earlobe between his teeth. Sucking on the spot to make a squelching noise. 

Quickly Solas picks her up and lays her on his lap on the divan at the center of the room. It’s covered in plastic that resembles leather–easier to clean. His hand reached down between her legs Ellana’s placed a hand on her forehead, moving it towards her mouth to cover it as she moaned. The sound startles her because she didn’t know, until that moment, that she was capable of that kind of unrepentant want.

“Oh, you are so wet for me,” Solas exclaims with admiration before thrusting a finger and then another inside of her. It’s true. Both that Ellana is wet and that it's for him. Solas toys with her a bit. She’s closed her eyes but somehow can sense his gaze roaming her face, watching her intently as he moves his fingers back and forth. 

“Don’t cover your mouth,” Solas instructs as his fingers dive into her, his spare hand gripping her thigh as she writhes against him. He drags the flat of his thumb up around her clit. Soft touches that make her back arch on his lap. Despite the way she’s jerking her arms, he has no trouble holding on to her. 

“There, keep doing that,” she demands when he finds a particularly pleasurable spot. It’s not an order in her mind but a confession of desperation. The words come out throaty and authoritative, and the second they escape her mouth, Ellana knows she’s made a mistake as Solas withdraws his fingers, dismissively rubbing her juices along the inside of her thighs.

“Do you think to tell me what to do?” Solas teases. He’s never outwardly harsh, which makes the unspoken threat worse. “That is three strikes if you weren’t following.” 

Before Ellana can respond or regain her bearings, Solas flips her over. A few adjustments, and her ass is brought high up against the ceiling. He rubs a hand eagerly over the skin. A moan–she’s started to hear it’s hers–and then the hard thwap of his hand echoed out in the room. A whimper and then another hit. She could feel Solas’ muscles tighten, and then another slap. She can tell by the way he’s moving that he’s striking her lightly, barely putting any strength into it, but it stings. 

“Creators,” Ellana mutters over and over again into his pant leg. She’s surprised at how much she likes the pain. 

The sharpness of it gives something for her brain to chew on as Solas lands another blow only to pause. She inhales sharply in protest at his hesitation, and he continues. Time passes, and Ellana finds pleasure in the steady thwap. It feels like her body is being glued back together by the awareness of Solas smacking her, causing her to reverberate in tandem with the room's solidness. Just as her body accepts the pain, Solas stops. He sits there, silently, before flipping her over and carrying her to a large table pushed to the side of the room and places her at the center as if she were on an altar. 

The two lock eyes. “Tell me what you want,” Solas says, a bead of sweat runs down his temple. His hands spread her thighs in front of him, leaving her entirely open. The posture makes her feel vulnerable and small, but also inexplicably powerful. 

When she looks down, he commands, “Eyes on me.” The order makes her realize how defenseless she is, his long thumb pulling open her folds further. Ellana attempts to shut her legs, only for Solas to double down on his strength. “Do you want another punishment?”

The whole encounter is a series of contradictions she’s trying to understand. There is adoration in Solas’ touch, but also a great deal of withholding. He’s looking down between her legs as if he wanted to bury his face into the core of her, but doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” She confessed, and then, since she forgot. “Sir.” It’s a question. She’s not sure what she should be doing. Is remembering that she’s never done anything like this before but wants more than anything to be proficient. 

“I think you want to be good.” His thumb slides between her folds, finds her clit, and ghosts around the less sensitive edges. She cries out when he playfully squeezes it. 

“You were so vocal about it earlier. What changed?” 

“I want you to—” 

“You want to, what?” 

“Please, would you, sir.” Her voice drifts off. 

“Be more specific.” 

“Please may I come, sir?” 

“Beg for it.” Ellana realizes that he’s teaching her a script. That, as he said earlier, he’s going easy on her, that the tautness is him holding back. She wonders what it would be like if he weren’t. 

“Please, it’s all I want, sir.” 

Solas relents with an efficient nod. He slips a finger again and then another, he’s careful, and he’s slow as if nurturing a plot of earth to take a seed. Ellana can feel him watching her, waiting to see what works and what doesn’t until he finds the right pace and spot, and soon she’s arching in time with him, fucking herself on his fingers. 

“Good girl,” he breaths. “Come now.” 

A soft cry, and she does. Hard. 

When her eyes opened again, Ellana is shivering from the aftershocks. It unwinds some of the tightness in her chest, and as she sits up, she makes out the corners of the room with a new sharpness, the outline of Solas beside her, bringing a blanket to wrap around her body. For the first time since Cullen died, there is quiet in her mind. It’s pleasant, and Ellana thinks she might be capable of life again. 

She looks up at Solas, down at her body, and then up again in wonder. She’s not able to get any words out. She is rendered speechless, a euphoria percolating throughout her shaking body. 

“Emotional release. It’s normal,” Solas reassured her, handing her a chilled water bottle seemingly out of nowhere. His voice has changed. It is still commanding but more moderate in intent. “Drink.” 

“I should probably go.” She said, the reluctance in her voice startled her. 

“We should talk. It’s important to reflect. Was that too much?”

“No,” Ellana shook her head, quieting her body a bit to sit up and accept the glass of water. 

“Are you lightheaded or dizzy?” Solas brushed loose strands of hair out of her face as she sat with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The shaking is starting to abate. 

“A bit,” She admitted. “It’s not.” She pauses as Solas’ eyes widen with concern. “It felt good. I liked it.” 

“We should get you something to eat.” Solas softens, clearly pleased by the admission. His use of the word we startles Ellana. 

“Oh?”

“Aftercare,” Solas explained as if the single word had any meaning to her. “Let’s get you cleaned off?” He gestures to the other side of the room, and Ellana sees a shower she hadn’t noticed before. The hardwood leading to an open stretch of tile, the drain built into the bottom of the floor. She wanted to ask what kink the open shower enabled but thought twice about it. She felt too dopey and serene. Despite the exhaustion in her body, she wanted Solas to keep touching her. 

“Yes, thank you—” Ellana began, a nervous tweak to her voice. “Do I call you, sir?” 

“No, only in session.” Solas rose to start the water. Coming to stand next to her, he began to slough off his clothing, taking the time to fold each article neatly or fold it over the edge of the chair. She only gets a peek at his body, it’s more muscular than she expected, and he’s incredibly clean. Perhaps the cleanest man she’s ever met. Ellana is still gawking when Solas picks her up and brings her to the shower. He has her stand in the middle, running his hands over her until she’s been scrubbed a rosy pink. 

“I’d like to do this again if you are interested,” Solas announced, adjusting the showerhead to rinse her clean. Now they were simply standing under the water watching each other. His erection pressing against her thigh. She wanted to hold it in her hand, bring him to the same pleasure he had brought her, but resisted the urge. 

“Yes.” She said. “It was nice.”

Solas chuckled. Ellana thinks at the triteness of what she said as if she were referring to the outcome of a card game or a movie. Elliana wanted to ask if he spent this much time freely lingering with a client or lover. At the moment, she’s not sure which one she is. She doesn’t know all the rules, but she was certain that his attentions were more than was generally expected. 

His hands traced the edges of her shoulder blades, down her spine, as if drawing her. She moves into them, shocked to find a spot to tuck her head underneath her chin. Solas seemed happy to oblige. 

“You are so sensitive to touch.” Solas marveled. 

Ellana nodded, not wanting to explain that she hadn’t been with another person for quite some time. That it was sensitivity not only from that, but out of an emerging sense of reality again. That for the first time in months, she’s aware that she has a body, a so-called universal type of knowledge.

Solas seems to understand, allowing the water to rush over them, as he changed the subject. “Why were you editing a book on metaphysics at the bar.” 

Ellana laughs for the first time in a year. It’s a sad sound, so she quickly clears her throat to cover it up. 

“I’m curious.” He insists. 

She pulls back and laughs again. “I’m an editor. At least that’s what I do for money.” She thinks to explain she’s also an author. Wrote a well-received book that critics heralded as a new voice. Thinks again of it, realizing she knows so little of this man. Instead, she turns the question on him. “How did you know it was a metaphysics book?” 

“I’m a professor.” He cocks an eyebrow with a self-satisfied grin. “At least that’s what I do for money.” 

“Ah,” Ellana says. Her mouth opens and closes like a salmon she once saw in an aquarium. She’s not able to sustain the conversation. Looking away. She thinks that Solas might be disappointed, but instead, he draws her back against his chest as if to console her despite not knowing why. It is perhaps the most kindness she’s allowed herself to recieve over the last year.

“Are you going home?” Solas asked when they dried off and dressed. 

“Yes,” She realizes that he might be asking because he wants to spend more time with her. She’d like that too, but all of her defense mechanisms chime in. It was better to be alone. 

“Do you want someone to walk you? It’s late.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Or dinner? You should eat.” 

“Another night.” 

Ellana thought to relent. Can see by the way Solas’ jaw tightens. She's hurt him a bit in a way she’s sure he won’t admit to. He’s too imposing, but it's comforting to know that underneath the enigma is a complicated person. That she might not be alone in the world as one. 

“If you feel anxious or unsettled the next few days, please let me know, and we can talk through it.” Solas reached into his pocket, pulling out a leather wallet and then a piece of ivory cardstock a little smaller than a standard business card with his first name and a number written on it with all caps lettering. 

“Thank you.” She took the card and put it in her pocket. 

Solas hesitates, then after another long pause, he begins again. Talking so she might linger. “We could make a more formal agreement if you’d like, make this a more regular occurrence.” Solas tucks a piece of hair that fell into her face behind her ear. It’s tender. She’s not sure if it's intentionally so or just in contrast to the recent feeling of him smacking her ass. 

“Oh,” Ellana says. “I need to think about it.” She knows he can sense her hesitation. Probably thinks it's because of the violence that she had found it to be distasteful. Really, she wants him to bend her over the table and fuck her again. Part of her thinks to ask him to do it. If only for the shock of it. 

“I enjoyed myself. I think you enjoyed yourself.” Solas continued saying the words Ellana wanted to but couldn’t figure out how to articulate out loud. “It would be something to explore. If we are, however, to do this at a more regular interval, we should clearly communicate what those expectations are.” 

Ellana took the card. Realizing Solas has held it out to her the entire time, waiting for her to take it. “That’s a commitment.” 

Most of her wants to say yes, but knows that she has to dissect what it might mean first. That she's not ready for the risk. 

“It is.” Solas acknowledged. He is about to speak, hesitates, and then quiets again. 

“A serious one.” 

“Yes.” 

“I had a long year. It was hard on me, and I’m not sure I’m coping well.” Ellana explains, it is the first time she’s been clear about how she’s actually felt about her grief. At least outside of passively accepting what another might say to her as the truth. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The words are genuine, and Ellana can feel her mouth quirk up at the understanding. She appreciates Solas more for it that he doesn't push her to explain. 

“I need to think about it.” 

Ellana hears Solas make a quick intake of breath. As if to take back his invitation. She knows he can see some of the emotions that have been ruling her more plainly now. That she is, in actuality, a fragile creature volunteering to be broken even more. He stares at her face again, hesitates, and then releases another breath as his desire wins out. She's not sure why, but Ellana interprets this as some sort of indecipherable victory. 

“Take your time.” 

  
  



	4. four

**four**

It is nearly a month after Ellana’s encounter with Solas. 

She is sitting sipping tart lemonade in a large sunroom doing her best to hold onto the acetic flavor. It’s her least favorite type of battle scene. There are varying shades of soft-hued pink and white tissue paper scattered along the floor. Women's voices surrounding her coalesce in an off-tune choir of enthusiastic oohs. 

Josephine is sitting in the arena's center, a ring of bows tied around her swan-like neck. Every time she opens a bridal shower gift, her mother, Genevieve, plucks the ribbon off the wrapping and adds it to the makeshift necklace. Whenever Josephine breaks a strand, a few women joke that it signals how many babies she is destined to deliver. 

When the number reaches five, Ellana finds the quip tactless. At nine, she finds it bloody thirsty. 

Despite the mawkish adornment, Josephine is radiant. Her long ebony curls tumble to her waist. She’s wearing a strapless white dress and a gold headband, and a beam of prismatic light through a stained glass window illuminates a rectangle of tan skin. Her mother—an older version of Josephine with shorter graying hair—stands behind her in a smart tweed suit that probably cost more than Ellana’s rent for the month. 

Ellana is overjoyed for her friend—and marveling at how strong the feeling is. She’s keeping up with the conversation, and every once in a while, can muster a discreet eye roll in Cassandra’s direction. Both of them are bored by the silly games and do their best to keep their faces neutral whenever one of Josie’s distant relatives squeals. 

It is the first day in a long while Ellana would term good. It is definitely the first day since Cullen died that she would describe as happy. She isn’t sure what changed within her but is certain Solas is the cause of it. The surrounding tulle decorations only fuel the fervor of her fantasies, adding a bewildering texture to Ellana’s ecstatic reminiscing of Solas’ slapping her ass and spreading her open. 

She is glad when the gift-opening begins. FInds it sad that it’s almost over and that she will need to be an active participant in the present moment again. 

As Josephine begins to make a pretty toast to everyone in the room, a woman Ellana has never met before leans over to her from the adjacent chair. She’s about the same age as Josephine’s mother—underweight with eyebrows plucked too thin—dressed in a chocolate linen dress that ties around the waist with a matchy-matchy leather belt. Ellana thinks that by the flat expression of the woman’s face, she’ll be asked something commonplace and simple, like _who did they say gave that gift?_ or _did Ellana know where the bathroom was?_

“Are you Josephine’s friend, the Elven author?” The woman whispers impolitely, fingering the top of her own rounded ears. The eyes looking back at her are glassy and drunk. 

“Pardon?” 

“This must be hard for you, given _you know—_ ” 

The woman reaches out to sympathetically pat Ellana on the arm like bestowing a great honor, but she’s already risen from the white folding chair. Her skin is burning as her mind races through to half-a-dozen retorts. She can’t stop picturing Cullen’s face grinning up at her. In her vision, he’s on his knees, holding up a small velvet box waiting for her to burst into tears of joy and start screaming, yes, of course, I’ll marry you. 

As she often does, Ellana wonders what he would have done if she hadn’t. 

Ellana retreats through the kitchen, walking straight past the overflowing plates of fancy tea sandwiches, crab cakes, and petit fours clustered elegantly on the marble kitchen island. The sight of the bacchanalia undoes her further. It’s too much. The screen door rattles as it shuts behind her. 

Josephine’s parent’s summer house was in a large suburban enclave. The driveway winds through groves of scenic evergreen trees that swarm with halla in the morning. Ellana has been a frequent visitor since she and Josephine were freshman roommates and knew her way around the grounds. 

She heads toward an oak tree in the remote side yard with a bench positioned underneath it, a rusty coffee tin under the seat for Josephine’s father’s cigar ash. Ellana doesn’t think he’d mind if she borrowed it in this desperate moment. After all, he is a kind man who likes to brag about his daughter’s literary friend as if it is one of his own accomplishments. 

Ellana’s hands shake as she grasps for her carton of cigarettes and lighter. The hit of nicotine calms her, and she sucks down an entire cigarette in rapid succession, watching the paper tube burn up. 

By the time she lights her second, Ellana feels foolish. She didn’t need to leave the party. Shouldn’t have. She’s sure that everyone present turned to watch her flee. She hates being the center of attention—regrets taking the spotlight away from Josephine, who loved it. 

After a few deep breaths, and Ellana can chase away the image of Cullen. She looks up at the sky, large cumulus clouds floating in the late afternoon sky, and it prompts her unexpectedly to try and remember the exact pinpoints of freckles on Solas’ skin. She’s used to her mind jumping between so many unlike things at once. It is briefly startling to think that she’s only replacing Cullen with Solas, but a flip of her gut tells her it’s not that easy. Ellana reaches a single finger into her purse to fondle the card Solas handed her at the end of their evening. She hasn’t once taken it out of the front pocket, only running the edges smooth with indecision, afraid to lose such a precious thing. 

She wanted to call Solas. Wondered what he’d say if she told him she was at a bridal shower. Found herself unable to imagine the conversation and went back to smoking her cigarette in relative peace. 

Ellana could almost manage to go back to the party when a tentative hand brushed her shoulder. She didn’t have to turn to know it was Cassandra. There was no one else it could be. Cassandra roughly grabbed the bench and slid next to Ellana, who kept staring forward on a bluish horizon line. 

“What happened? Josephine opened the bread maker you gave her. Sent me to find you as Genevieve handed her another gift.” 

Ellana sucked on the end of the filter. The ember pulsed with airflow. 

“Another hour, can you make it?” Cassandra asks. “I know this is hard—” 

“It wasn’t hard,” Ellana scoffed, her voice turning towards something like reverence with her next statement. “I found it wonderful to see Josephine so happy .“A woman whom I’ve never met, maybe a stray neighbor, asked me if it was hard, considering Cullen. It caught me so off-guard. I hadn’t thought of Cullen’s death all afternoon, and it came crashing back.” 

It is the first time Ellana has voluntarily brought Cullen up as a subject since the funeral. She has known Cassandra for almost a decade. She knows that her friend has run out of patience for anything she interprets at theatrics and is relieved to discover that is not the issue at hand.

“Oh, that’s terrible, Ellana. Some of these women have nothing to do all day. Willfully even—” 

“I would pity them, but they are a murderous hive.” 

“Spoken like a writer,” Cassandra observes, wrapping her arms around Ellana, who is shivering in the autumn wind. She returns the embrace with affection, surprised not to rebuff at the feeling of closeness. It is a moment of growth her psychologist would call a triumph. 

After the guests have left the girls go to Josephine's childhood bedroom. Josephine and Ellana lay next to one another on a twin-size bed as Cassandra flipped through wedding magazines on the floor with the intellectual rigor she applied to mathematical equations. Ellana reads a literary arts quarterly an acquaintance of hers had published a short story in. It was about a couple who go on a cruise and discover they are no longer in love as they engage in a collective extramarital affair. Ellana was superstitious enough to put the text down, thinking that she’d already injected enough negativity into a day dedicated, in theory, to matrimonial happiness. 

“I really like the bread maker,” Josephine said the moment Ellana put down the magazine. 

“I thought you might. It’s easy to use,” Ellana laughed. Josephine was infamously a terrible cook. 

“Do you think you can teach me how to make sourdough?” 

“Of course.” Ellana reaches out to twine her fingers with Josephine’s. It’s heartbreaking and tender. 

“I’m so happy you are here. I’ve missed you,” Josephine said somberly, reaching out to tightly hug Ellana, who hugged her back. She knows the announcement is not related to Ellana’s physical presence but her mental focus. 

Arm-and-arm Josephine and Ellana lay there for a while, dreamily staring at the ceiling as Josephine’s hands played with Ellana’s hair. She likes it until Josephine’s hands come close to sliding the pins that hid Ellana’s bald spot from where she had pulled out strands of her hair, follicle-by-follicle, in her grief. Josephine recoiled as Ellana involuntarily jerked away, unsure how she could ricochet between emotions so quickly. 

“I’m sorry, the nicotine withdrawal makes me jumpy. I need to have a cigarette.” 

“Alright.” Josephine cooed, happy to let the strange moment go, as Ellana wordlessly kissed her on the cheek as she slid off the bed.

As she stood, Ellana is keenly aware of how in a few years, she’ll consider this evening the unceremonious end to their shared early adulthood. It’s a bittersweet reckoning, knowing how much of it Ellana has missed over the past year or so. Josephine will be married and living in a modern condo overlooking the waking sea in the near future. Judging by the way Cassandra is flicking through the bridal magazines, she will not be too far behind. 

Exiting Josephine’s bedroom, Ellana is also aware of how different her own goals are and how she is unable to put into words what she wants her future to be. She is startled at how long she went without thinking about time moving forward or realizing that such a thing was possible. As simpleminded as that sounded, Ellana was convinced it was happening without her and wondered if she'd ever find a place in it. 

“Hi sweetheart,” a heavily accented voice calls up to her from the bottom of the stairs. Genevieve had changed out of her suit into a pair of snowy-white chino pants and a matching quilted jacket. “You look like you are freezing.”

Ellana looks down at her summery dress she’s wearing. It’s a gauzy yellow thing that falls off her shoulders. It’s too thin, but the only appropriate thing she had to wear to a bridal shower. She had bought it for a party Josephine’s parents had thrown to celebrate their daughter’s twenty-sixth birthday. It was shortly after she had published her book, and the world had been brighter then. Cullen had beamed the entire party, whispering how pretty she looked in the sunny fabric. The dress didn’t fit Ellana anymore—in structure or style. 

“Let’s get you a sweater,” Genevieve said, coming to meet Ellana at the upstairs landing, taking her hand and leading her back to the master bedroom towards her luxurious walk-in closet. 

Josephine’s mother has always taken a special protective interest in Ellana ever since she and her daughter had shared the same dorm room. It was Genevieve who Ellana spoke to whenever something went wrong. It hadn’t been a dynamic she had been wholly conscious of, either in rarity or prominence, until Genevieve called Ellana’s mother in a blind rage when she found out she refused to travel for Cullen’s funeral, saying that she barely knew the man even if he and Ellana daughter had been together for six years—living together for five.

“I’m sorry for what Fiona said to you,” Genevieve said as she skimmed the racks of her clothes, pulling out an elegant cashmere wrap-top and handing it to Ellana. Ellana has learned better than to refuse the gift. She fully intends for Ellana to bring it home with her and not return it. “Cassandra told me after you came back. She’s a rotten woman.” 

“It’s alright,” Ellana said to change the subject, sitting on a bench that belonged to a large vanity set as she wrapped the soft shirt around her shivering arms. The sweater suits her in a way that she suspects Genevieve might have bought it for her especially. She loves it all the more for the thought. 

“Josephine is right. You do seem better. Not pretending.”

Genevieve is one of the only people Ellana allows this sort of intense access to her most intimate feelings. She suppresses a chuckle when Josephine's mother feels her forehead with the back of her hand as if to see if Ellana is running a fever. 

“I feel a little more like myself,” Ellana admitted, dragging her fingers behind her ear and then realizing Genevieve was staring at her intently. “I met someone.” A pause. “He’s a little unconventional.” 

“Unconventional?” Josephine’s mother scrutinizes the words. She takes out an expensive paper bag and begins to tug a few items from their hangers for Ellana to take home. It’s not the first time she’s done it, thinking that Ellana doesn’t take enough care of herself, especially now. She’ll slip in a few expensive skincare products and some treats from the kitchen. Ellana had protested once a few years ago at the ritual, only for Genevieve to hush her and say that she didn’t think that Ellana got enough of this type of unconditional love growing up. 

Genevieve was correct. 

“I think he wants more than what I can offer.” Ellana shrugged. Genevieve was not a prude. At times, she had been a painter and a complete bohemian—as much as a trust fund kid could be—before marrying her husband. Still, Ellana didn’t think she’d take kindly to the idea of her meeting a man in a sex club. Might stage an intervention if she knew the whole truth. 

“He’s older. A professor.” She thought the job title might be helpful. 

“How much older?”

“At least a decade. More likely a decade-and-a-half.” Ellana laughs. It’s not so salacious of an age gap as it would have been even a few years ago, but it somehow makes Ellana more attracted to Solas to think of him as having reached a steady age. She knows instantly by the way that Genevieve’s eyebrows arch with great interest that she also thinks it’s a good idea. 

“I’m not surprised,” Genevieve laughed, holding up a white tunic top for Ellana’s inspection, who shook her head. 

“Why not?” 

“Call it a mother’s intuition. You're sure he's not married? An older man with a younger woman—" 

Genevieve she can tell is joking, but Ellana couldn't actually confirm that fact, but something in her gut told her Solas was single. His interest didn't have the sort of secretive qualities one would expect from a married man. 

"No—"

"Maybe a fling with an older man would be good for you. You don’t have to marry everyone you date despite what my daughters think.” 

“I don’t know if I want it to be a passing fling,” Ellana admitted, leaning down in the chair as Genevieve folds a pair of ebony velvet joggers. She wondered again what Josephine's mother would say if she knew the breadth of Ellana's interests. "I don't know what I want." 

“If it helps, take the medicine.” 

Shortly after nine o’clock, Ellana started the long drive back to Denerim. Cassandra was going to spend the night. A last-minute decision driven by Josie’s pleading for additional help with wedding planning and Ellana’s practical need to return the rental car on time.

Ellana stops at a gas station to refuel, her fingers teasing the edge of Solas’ card again as she pulled out cash to pay; sipping on a cup of coffee, Ellana took it out and looked at it for the first time since he gave it to her, admiring the careful handwriting. Thinking about what Josephine's mother said, Ellana entered the digits into her phone, syncing her phone with the Bluetooth speaker. 

“Phone, call Solas,” she commanded the moment she’s on the highway. The traffic is beginning to slow, and she knows it will come to a halt any moment now. The phone rings, and when she hears his voice picks up and says hello it's drowsy as if Solas had been sleeping. Ellana struggles to picture him doing any mundane thing. 

“Is it a bad time?” 

“Ellana?” Solas’s amused voice plays in surround sound like an old ghost in a black and white movie. 

“Yes. Should I be impressed you knew who it was?” 

“I don’t frequently give my phone number out. Only deduction, I'm afraid." 

“Oh,” She pauses awkwardly as the cars begin to slow on the highway coming to a halt, her focus momentarily diverted. The pause gave more unintentional weight to the moment. “I’m sorry I’m driving back to the city.” 

“I didn’t realize. Would you prefer to speak later?”

“No, I’m in a traffic jam. Keep me company.” Ellana playfully exclaimed. “It’s a bad one. Maybe an accident?” 

“I hadn’t heard from you, so I assumed that you were uninterested,” Solas admitted. Ellana searched his tone for any hidden meanings or sadness and detected no discernable emotion. Worries that he is no longer interested and that her procrastination had been misinterpreted. 

“I’ve thought of you,” Ellana confesses abruptly. It’s a confession she can’t walk back. “About—” She can hear Solas breathing a little harder. She is unsure what to make of the sound, so she continues. “I am slow to make up my mind, lately.” 

“I see, and what did your mind land on, little one?” 

“I want to continue.” 

Ellana expected Solas to acknowledge the confirmation right away. Instead, she hears the sound of a cabinet door opening and closing. Water runs, and she can hear the tapping of glass on something hard and solid. The idea of Solas grabbing something to drink seems anticlimactic, and for a moment, Ellana worries he might be doing so to stall. 

“Would—” She begins. Her breath halting. She knows Solas demands specific answers. Isn’t sure of the boundary of that requirement. Regrets not knowing the exact phrasing required for this circumstance. 

“There is a restaurant close to where I live. We can meet there the day after next and discuss?” 

“Yes, I’d like that.” 


	5. five

**five**

The first scene in Ellana’s novel is of a young Dalish hunter butchering a halla. A paragraph describes the process in minute detail. The blade. The incision. The guts pouring out. 

The next paragraph skips to when the protagonists meet. The butchered halla is roasted and served at the clan’s celebration of the summer solstice. A woman from another clan, whom the protagonist will come to love—knowing all the while that their relationship is doomed—takes a bite of leg and is unaware of blood trickling down her chin to stain her white blouse. The narrator likens the haphazard spill to the history of the Dalish people, and the hunter is abruptly enticed. 

It makes sense, to Ellana, somehow, that because her mind fashioned such a scene, it would also lead her to sit opposite a man who, to put it succinctly, wants to beat her for pleasure and have her respectfully thank him on her knees for the privilege. She finds it inevitable that she would initiate a relationship that is not only built out of attraction but a mutual fascination with the spectacle of violence. 

There is little of Solas in the early evening light that would indicate he is a sadist. Not that Ellana would exclusively term him as such. She recognizes that there is certainly part of him that likes to inflict pain just as part of her likes to receive it, but Ellana is fairly certain that it is the control that he enjoys most. 

Telling her what to do and how to do it.

She can observe it in his posture, the way he sits perfectly straight in the chair opposite of her. He’s immaculate and unrumpled, dressed in a cornflower blue dress shirt and gray slacks that reveal ruby-colored dress socks over perfectly shined loafers. It’s not vanity, she’s certain, underneath the perfect tailoring and fit of his clothing—more an intuitive gracefulness. 

Ellana can’t help but study Solas’ every motion carefully, She’s having trouble placing him. His greeting had been detached but somehow warm. Another contradiction she can’t quite pinpoint. The spots where his lips touched her—Orleasian style pecks on each cheek—still burn. He smiles back at her from behind a menu—a single sheet of speckled handmade paper—and Ellana blushes like a coquettish schoolgirl. 

It’s not quite dinner yet. It’s that strange liminal hour between the end of the workday and evening. A few other patrons, mostly elves in business suits, are sitting along the bar chatting. It makes her feel a little odd to be the only couple sitting amongst the tables. She feels vulnerable almost like they are on stage. 

Solas asks her something. Ellana is embarrassed to have to ask him to repeat himself. There is enough background noise to offer a protective layer to their conversation, but it doesn’t obscure Solas’ voice. It’s her nerves. She’s struggling to listen. 

“Would you mind if I had a glass of wine? If I recall, correctly you don’t drink.” 

“No,” Ellana cocked her head, amazed at Solas’ way of parsing a request that’s not explicitly asking for her permission. More asking if she wouldn’t object. Some would say that’s the same thing. Ellana knows it's not. 

“I don’t care if others drink.” She shrugs. The words come out uncharacteristically girlish in tone, and Ellana futzes nervously with the cloth napkin on her lap in response as if to commit to that facade. “I’ve just never had any interest.” 

A waiter comes by. He’s a young elven man, not much more than twenty years old. Ellana guesses Solas is a regular, even beloved. By the way, the man greets him with a smile and asks how he’s been doing lately. After the conversation is finished, the waiter promptly scurries off to get a glass of chianti and sparkling water. 

The table falls to silence again as Solas goes back to searching the menu. Ellana pretends to as well. The sans serif font she reads blurs together and repeats in her mind like a sestina: rosemary brines and lavender garnish, fresh basil risotto with parmesan, and fragrant halla cheese paired with greens. Every once in a while, Ellana catches Solas admiring her. He does not attempt subtlety. Which only makes her heart pound more. 

“There isn’t any need to be nervous,” Solas says softly to her as she taps her foot underneath the table. “This is only to get to know each other better. We don’t have to come to any conclusions unless it makes total sense to both of us.” 

Solas places his hand in front of her, slides it towards her. Ellana looks down. He had elegant hands, if one can say such a thing. Long willowy fingers. She reaches out, touching the tips of them only to feel him put his hand on hers before flipping it palm up and tracing her thumb joint. It’s enough. 

Ellana jolts at the contact, and a small exhale on her lips is quickly stifled like an airtight jar placed over a flame. 

“So sensitive, little one.” Solas teased in a gentle whisper. It’s a good-natured comment, but Ellana finds it too surgically precise. Almost like an acupuncturist's needle unexpectedly striking a bundle of nerves. She’s spent the last year keeping everything as sterile as possible. The way her heart pounds threatens her scattered stability. 

Ellana looks away a bit and then back at Solas. A single tear, reminiscent of the trickle of blood in the opening scene of her novel, streams down her face.

“It’s alright.” He continues—his mouth quirking up with surprise and sympathy—squeezing her hand. Ellana feels like the gesture pastes her back together. She’s unsure how Solas has this sort of wordless power over her, that he seems able to recover whatever is left of her after this year of annihilation. It’s a relief to be found, but Ellana tries to remain skeptical as a protective measure. She barely knows the man sitting across from her. 

She uses her free hand to wipe the tear away. She does her best to move forward. 

“I like this place.” She admired in response. It’s true. The space is divided by rotating walls that are open to take advantage of the last remaining good weather of the year. Mismatched tables and chairs tumble out like disorderly weeds into an enclosed garden of lush ivy. The interior part of the restaurant is lined with wallpaper that is a collage of different medieval-era tapestries. As it gets darker, the soft candlelight gives everything a glow as if they are in the basement of a castle. It’s peaceful and intimate. 

“I thought you might.” Solas says, releasing her hand, “It’s all simple food, but the craft is perfect. Dorian said you like to cook?” 

Ellana laughs.Of course Dorian would try to insert himself. He’s a terrible gossip, especially when he’s delighted by something. 

“What else did Dorian say about me?” 

“He mentioned that you unexpectedly lost your partner last year,” 

Ellana can tell by the blunt manner Solas asks the question that he wanted to get it out of the way. Almost to confirm that she’s single or to determine the extent of her damage. Ellana should be angry that her friend had broken the news but glad not to have to do it herself. On the bus ride over, she had waivered over if she should say anything about Cullen and how to phrase it if she did. 

“It was a motorcycle accident. Dead upon impact.” 

“That’s quite a loss.” His eyes peer into hers. It’s an unflinching gaze. A test, she is sure to see if she’ll share anymore. 

“It was a shock,” Ellana nods. She’s learned to manage the tidy sentences required to make others comfortable. “Yes, and a loss. I’m not going to claim I am immune from grief, but I don’t want to worry you about that—” 

“Plenty of people find emotional release in the lifestyle.” Solas offers, looking up at her from his water. He drinks an inordinate amount of water. This is his third glass. His wine remains mostly untouched. “Do you think that this is what you are seeking in this type of arrangement?” 

Ellana doesn’t answer the question. “Do you find emotional release?” 

“At times.” 

“What is it about for you then?” 

“Reflexivity,” Solas pauses. Always careful. “An outlet, certainly to explore willpower. My own. Yours.” Another sip of water. “If I am being poetic, it’s pleasure at its most primal.” 

“How long have you been involved in the—.” 

“Almost twenty years,” Solas holds up his wine glass and swirls the red liquid in it, and sets it down without taking a sip. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

Ellana recoils at Solas catching her diversion. She’s used to being able to ask any number of questions to stay invisible. It’s startling to have such undivided attention. Instead of answering right away, she picks up her glass of club soda and takes a sip. Usually, she has a lemon or lime wedge added but was too jumpy to ask. The plain flavor shocks her—the ice too cold on her tongue—barely warming as it slides down her throat. She’s stalling. It’s painfully obvious. She begins to sense that Solas is dissecting her in a way she wants to do to him. 

“It was cathartic.” Ellana takes another sip, feeling that she stated something obvious, and had simply put the rubric to fancier words that did little to match her experience.

Ellana inhales and then exhales. It’s a minute until she can speak again. Solas waits patiently, never taking his eyes off her face. Ellana wants to scoot closer to him and be entirely enveloped in his warmth. Instead, she plants her feet more firmly on the ground and grips the side of the table. 

“That is.” A halting breath, and then something like awe comes out. “I don’t know if I have anything poetic to say other than I liked the sensation and the study of it.” 

Solas nods. She’s not sure why, but he seems satisfied by her answer. 

“This is a bit unorthodox. I don’t mean the dynamic, but an inexperienced sub entering into a more extensive contract.” Solas pulls out a tiny notebook from his breast pocket. Inside is a list in the same careful handwriting as on his business card. “The responsible choice would be for us to simply get to know each other better—” 

It’s cutting for its accuracy—and the idea that Solas might simply choose to end things now. Ellana can’t really say concretely why she wants to join him for another session, but she’s clinging to the idea with the same amount of hope one might have for a lifejacket in a storm. 

She can feel her face flinching. Solas sees it and softens. “It’s been a long time since I’ve impulsively kissed a woman—that type of energy can be equally destructive to both of us in a session if there aren’t firm boundaries and expectations—.” 

“Yes,” Ellana states. She leans her head on her hand. Her elbow is rudely perched on the table. If she were at home, her father, before he died, would have smacked it off. She’s doing her best to seem casual. As if her stomach isn’t fluttering from a mixture of nerves and trying to guess what might happen next. 

“There are rules. Extensive ones. For your safety and mine. Do you think you would be—” 

“Yes.” Ellana repeats. She would agree to mostly anything. Solas is right to bring up how dangerous that might be. Hurtling along like a comet in space with nowhere to crash, she reaches out across the table and touches the top of Solas’ fingers. Her first such decisive gesture of interest, and Solas watches it with a bit of the same wonder he gave her the first night they met at the bar. 

Their waiter in a pinstripe apron approaches the table again, and Solas pauses his response. Ellana realizes he’s been holding up the menu the entire time with his free hand. She hasn’t even really looked at it and doesn't know what she wants. Everything is served small plate style, and that makes her usual indecisiveness worse. 

“Do you know what you’d like?” The waiter asks, expectantly holding up a small pad of paper and a pen as he impatiently chews his lower lip. Ellana halts, shooting a plaintive glance at the menu and then up to Solas for guidance. She is about to say go ahead when Solas flashes the waiter an effortless smile and says, “One more moment, if you don’t mind.” 

“Do you need more time?” Solas asks her, putting a hand out again for her to take. She’s startled to realize how conscientious he is about what she might need. About her happiness in general. “Would you prefer me to choose?” 

“Pick, please. I’ll eat anything,” Ellana laughs awkwardly with another soft nod. It’s strange why his offer brings her delight—but it does. 

Solas flashes her a mischievous grin like he might dazzle her by reading her mind and ordering exactly the right thing. The waiter returns when they both set down their menus. Solas reads off a few items, seemingly watching Ellana’s face for any flicker of approval, and then just like that, they are alone again. She feels brighter than when they first arrived at the restaurant. 

“There is a balance to this type of dynamic between intimacy and privacy. I’m not interested in ruling your life.” Solas said without delay once the waiter disappears. “I have other commitments, and I’m sure you do too. Still, there are elements I take seriously, such as your health and well-being.” Solas looks away and then directly at her again with an impish grin. “Not smoking cigarettes, for instance.”

“I do not smoke that many cigarettes,” Ellana protested defensively. That is a lie. Before Cullen died, it was an occasional indulgence, but now her smoking is wildly out of control. Sometimes she uses an almost extinguished cigarette to light the next as she edits at her table for hours. 

“You will smoke zero if you agree to this contract.” 

Ellana begins to picture a chessboard. That each of their actions is moving pieces forwards and backward. The point isn’t to win, Ellana thinks. That would be a _zugzwang_. This is about taking up space, snatching a piece, and handing it back to the other person in an endless cycle. Right now, Solas is snatching her rook. Next, she’ll take his knight. 

“Easy,” she says with a moment of unearned bravado. 

Solas chuckles as if he is aware of her stomach churning. He can see right through her in a way no one else has before. It makes Ellana feel more naked than she did when he laid her out on the table and spread her legs. The memory makes her reactively cross her ankles underneath the table. 

Solas takes out a leather portfolio from the chair next to him. He makes a show of opening it and sliding it to Ellana. It’s a formal-looking document, with many terms and conditions regarding trust and their roles. She begins to read it and feels like she is in a doctor’s office when she reaches a section about birth control and exclusivity—a timetable of availability. There is a long list of kinks, some of which she doesn’t recognize. It bears little resemblance to any of the examples she found online. 

“This is different than I expected,” Ellana observes in a hushed voice mid-way through the process. 

“What did you expect?” 

Ellana pauses. Staring back up at Solas. He’s put on a pair of reading glasses. They are more spectacle than anything else. Bourgeois round frames that, when put on, makes it impossible for him to be anything other than a scholar. She fights back a laugh at how comical she finds the aesthetic in comparison to the images flashing through her mind of women being flogged, strapped down so they couldn’t move, burned with wax, bound in handcuffs, and spanked until they cried. She had spent hours searching pornographic videos and listserves to try and understand what her interests might be. There weren’t any ready answers. Ellana halted her breath to confirm as much to Solas. 

“I am not as, shall we say, elaborate in my proclivities,” Solas says as if there is such a spectrum. “My approach is more straightforward.” 

“I’m not really sure what that means,” Ellana admits. “I’m interested, but this is all so new to me. I don’t know what to ask for.” 

Solas leaned back in his chair. A momentary slouch. His gaze is distant, as if he’s looking past her words. Ellana can see his chest rise and fall as if he’s breathing more deeply. He’s making the same sort of face that one might use when calculating a tip for a bill. Ellana is fragile and knows it. She thinks Solas must be thinking about how many times he can slap her ass until she’d break. Deciding if it is worth the investment. With a reserve of her past strength, Ellana folds her hands on the table in front of her and stares at him resolutely. It’s a dare. A dare for him to walk away. He catches the glint in her eye and nods with a sly grin that makes her feel feverish and stupid with lust again. 

“Do you want to review the terms? Then we can evaluate if we are compatible.” 

Solas recites the contract in a hushed voice for some time as if to give each line sacrosanct meaning. Ellana has to ask several times what something is and is surprised at the answer. She had thoug herself well-versed. As the conversation goes on, it gets clinical: how often, where, and when the dynamic exists, and even agreements for her bedtime. 

Their waiter approaches the table. Solas snaps the leather portfolio shut and says thank you when the young man sets down a collection of small plates with beautifully plated food. Ellana’s stomach growls, and Solas shoots her a pleased look, gesturing for her to begin. She daintily spreads a bit of pickled fish mixed with berries. She finds some novelty in actually tasting her food and hums as she makes another toast. 

“You’re right. This is good.” Ellana smiles. “I used to cook more. I still do, but much simpler than this.” 

“It’s hard to lose someone you love. Your entire life changes.” Solas remarks with keen understanding. His voice is nonchalant, but Ellana senses something taut to it. A wound of some kind. It’s old enough, Ellana thinks, for how accustomed he seems to be to the idea. Solas changes the subject before she can ask, “Shall we proceed with the contract.” 

Ellana nodded, taking another bite of toast and swallowing. “Do you do this with clients?” 

“It’s a different relationship, but yes, I do. There are fewer lifestyle changes in that dynamic.” 

“How am I different from a client?” Ellana asks. She knows it’s not as simple to say that one dynamic is transactional and the other isn’t. She wants to hear that Solas cares about her. Finds it erotic that he might. Doesn’t know why she wants this, actually. He seems to know it too, she can feel his long arm reach underneath the tablecloth, and with the barest of touches, he traces the inside of her thigh over her tights coming dangerously close to the edge of her panties. 

“You would be my sub.” 

“A sub,” Ellana responds breathily, trying not to think about how much she wants Solas to move his fingers upwards. He’s got her in a thrall. She’s painfully aware this is breaking a rule, although she’s not sure which one. She grips the edge of the table when Solas withdraws his hand. The absence is painful. 

“I’m captivated by you,” Solas admitted. “I think of you often. I never think of a client outside of a session. There is more devotion. I'd like to think from both of us." 

It's enough to convince Ellana to sign the contract. 

When the bill comes, Solas takes it immediately. Ellana is about to protest when he catches her eye with a smile, raising a single hand and touching her arm. He’s gotten closer to her once the contract was dealt with. It was signed by both of them. More easily, perhaps, than either party expected, and they are just chatting. It’s easy-going and about nothing. Ellana is sad it's going to end. 

They walked along the old boulevards lined with embrium in silence for a few blocks before Ellana stopped, unsure what to do. The alertness returning to her brain is making the numbness harder. Her mind is split into two again, like an apple chopped in half. One where she suggested they spend more time walking, and one that wanted to flee back to her self-imposed isolation as quickly as possible. 

“Would you like me to drive you home? I understand it’s far.” Solas offered sympathetically as if the grimace on her face was the realization about how long the bus ride was back to her side of town and not simply plotting to sneak a cigarette. 

“Um.” Her head is pounding for a hit of nicotine, and it's hard for her to follow the words again. She didn’t expect the cigarette she had waiting for Solas was to be her last. She is already regretting her signature on the contract. It wasn’t legally binding, but she was going to try and honor the spirit of the thing, at least for the first twenty-four hours. 

“My apartment building is close by. I don’t mind.” 

It would be polite, she thought, to refuse, and so she did. Solas placed his hand on the small of her back as if they were a date and led her to the bus station. It’s empty except for them, so he nods towards the bench and sits down next to her. 

“It will be a while,” he observes. “I’ll wait with you.” 

Ellana thanks him and is surprised when he asks to put his arm around her. She says, of course, as if it wasn’t a big thing, secretly pleased at the gesture, daring to lean her weight against him just enough that he turns to breathe in the smell of her hair. Ellana's head stops swirling, and she wrestles with asking him if he’d like to come over. He was right to point out how frenetic their shared energy was. 

She resists. 

“The alienage is so far away from the University.” Ellana takes it as a given that Solas teaches at the University of Denerim. There are other colleges in the city, but it’s one of the most esteemed institutions in Thedas. He’s too disciplined not to have achieved such standing. She refers to the place as everyone does in the city, not needing to give its specific name, so great is its standing. Imposing, she thinks a bit like Solas.

“How—?” Solas asks in a bemused voice but then shakes his head when she sees her playfully roll her eyes. It was obvious. “Yes, I like the alienage. The history and culture. Worth the commute.”

“Do you teach history?” She’s curious. 

“No, nothing in the humanities—are you an alum?” 

It's an egalitarian question. 

Ellana laughs and shakes her head. “I went to Skyhold for two years before I dropped out.” She names the state university. Decent, but not prestigious. She had hated every moment of it. Thought she saw Solas frown. It made her worry he was a snob; thought it was funny somehow, he didn’t know about her book, certainly he would have brought it up if Dorian had told him. “I dropped out, worked as a bartender. Got a job in publishing a few years later, an internship—” 

The internship had been the workings of Josephine’s parents. A friend-of-a-friend taking a risk on her. Fortunately for them, the risk had paid off. Ellana was a brilliant writer, even if she wasn’t currently producing any copy. A product, she thinks, of how many books she read as a child. Endlessly, in every subject, considering that the reservation didn’t have many options. She’d hide them under her mattress and pull them out when her parents fought, reading them with a flashlight sleepless night after sleepiness night. 

“So now you are a copy editor,” Solas observed.

“Among other things,” Ellana said, reaching reactively into the inside pocket of her maroon jacket for a cigarette. Extracting her hand immediately as Solas chortled. 

“Give them to me.” He demanded with an outstretched hand in a tone that brokered no argument. 

Ellana complied with an almost inaudible groan. She still had a bit before the withdrawal symptoms were unbearable. She could always to buy another pack later if she couldn’t stand it. Something told her that Solas already expected her to and that she’d be punished by default until she was truly able to quit. 

“I edit texts for the University press,” Ellana says to change the subject. “Maybe I’ve read yours.” 

“Maybe you have.” 

“Tell me—” 

“Shouldn’t some things remain a mystery?” Solas replied. Ellana can’t tell if it’s a joke or not but is interrupted yet again when she notices the bus turning around the corner and brusquely stands. 

“I’ll see you at the end of the week. You can always call me if you have any questions” Solas says, tracing the edge of her lip as the bus slowly makes its way down the street. Ellana is surprised both at the invitation and the solemn kiss at the corner of her mouth.

It takes Ellana an hour to get to the other side of the city where her apartment was. 

She climbs up the narrow staircase and is greeted by a surly Andraste who has waited too long for her can of wet food. Ellana fills her dish right away and hangs her coat in the entry closet along with her heels. She’s careful to put everything back where she found it. 

It’s still early.

Ellana turns on the shower all the way to the hottest setting and lays down fully dressed on the bathroom floor. It’s an old, wasteful habit, but it helps her write. 

The first time that Cullen found her like this, he went into a panic. It was hard for her to explain the ritual to non-writers. How she would stare up at the ceiling and whole scenes would erupt in front of her, carrying her away in the motion of it. The stark white paint sometimes tingles with prismatic dots of color as her eyes adjust to the blank space. If she squints, all there is in her view is a bare stretch of space where anything is possible. 

She stays there until the room is filled with steam, threatening to obscure her entirely. There is a thread, it’s faint, but the words are starting to come to her in fully formed sentences. She rises, turning off the water, and sits down at her table. She always keeps a standard size legal pad on the surface. For months now, it has remained blank, but that evening she’s able to get a few lines out before her phone chimes. She looks down at it to read a note from Solas, a compact reminder—still somehow precarious— _Don’t forget bedtime._


	6. six*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> very explicit/NSFW!

**six***

“How many cigarettes?” Solas asks Ellana. 

Ellana knew that it was obvious to both of them, she wouldn’t be able to quit smoking on the first try. It wasn’t, in her mind, a matter of if she would be punished—but how and for what duration. Throughout the week, Ellana wondered what it would be like, simultaneously recoiling and fantasizing about the inevitable encounter. 

She had pictured Solas’ hands slapping her ass again. Pictured and imagining so many things that hadn’t come to pass. Had expected the pain to come after Solas had told her to take off her clothes, only when she was mostly nude, he had pointed to a spot between his outstretched legs for her to kneel. As she’s sat there, the light has gotten dimmer. It was dark when she arrived at the club, but the single frosted window in the space shows that it is now a relentless dark, pitch black. Ellana isn’t sure how much time has elapsed. 

It’s cruel, she thinks, mainly because it transforms her into an entirely passive creature for Solas to command. A decoration for him to glance up on occasion, telling her to straighten up whenever her shoulders slumped with fatigue. His attention was otherwise directed at a book he had brought along, covered by an emerald green dust cover, the title obscured by his thumb along the spine. The silence and the stillness flummox the active part of her brain that regularly untangles plot and character motivation—her whole body is heavy with the labor of it, and Ellana desperately wants Solas to touch her—for something, _anything,_ to happen. She's attempted to preen, even, for his attention, an action which earned her a stern glare and a dismissive _be still._

Solas cleared his throat and then asked again more forcefully. “Ellana, how many cigarettes?” It’s intense, the use of her name—an intimate warning tying her to the present. She looks up at Solas’ face. He’s clearly elated. She can see it in how his hands are clenched over his knees, his muscles taut as if fighting to stay still. He knows he could hoist her onto his lap at any moment and lay into her. She’s furious at him for it. Not for his power over her, but because he refuses to wield it. 

He knows it too. How frustrated she is. How she could get up and walk away any time she wants. Only she chooses not to. She chooses to sit on the floor and wait for him to give an order—any order—to follow it gladly. It’s easy, in a way, because of how beautiful he is from her vantage point. Tall and imposing, his suit perfectly fitted, the hem of his pants drawn up to reveal royal blue dress socks with tiny stitches like starbursts. He’s worthy of her worship, and Ellana wants to make it clear to him she thinks that way about him. She’s never been so good in her entire life. Usually fights, only tonight, she thinks to simply give in. 

Solas set down the book when he asked Ellana about the cigarettes the second time. It made a fluttering sound when he slammed it shut and placed it right next to a black rubber paddle directly in Ellana’s line of sight. He hasn’t paid any attention to the paddle since sitting down, but Ellana isn’t so naive to think he’s ignoring it or that the object's positioning is happenstance. Everything about the evening, she’s confident, has been carefully plotted out. The room, for instance, is the same one as last time. A convenience, she thinks, to give Solas the upper hand by adding a familiar structure to the encounter the same way a rhyme scheme would a poem. 

“Elliana, the cigarettes—.” His voice has lost all patience. It’s dry and short. Solas draws his knees back and leans forward until his face is a breath away from hers. She can feel each inhale and exhale on her skin. It’s enough to make her quiver. 

Ellana is struggling to answer Solas’ question. She’s wholly aware of the ever-present coil of tension between her legs and little else. It had started when Solas told her to undress. He had sat down on the bench and directed her to slip her black dress over her head and fold it—making her repeat each motion until they matched his dogged expectations of gracefulness. Her mesh bralette followed. He had let her stop when she reached for the elastic of her black tights and panties—prompted her to thank him for his generosity in allowing her to keep them—and then made her sit with her shoulders pushed back, so her breasts jutted out towards him. With each rise and fall of her breaths, she’s aware of it all. How naked she is and how little control she has left. Her hardening nipples signaling how much she likes it all despite her thudding heart. 

Solas makes an amused tsking sound, “Are you trying to avoid punishment? Do you think I'm so lenient?” 

“No, sir. I’m still counting.” She didn’t mean for it to be a dare, but it is. She realizes she’s stolen some control back from him simply by contradicting his assessment. A smirk flashes across Solas’ face, but Ellana doesn’t have much time to confirm its presence as his expression snaps into something as hard and impenetrable as it had been for most of the evening tribunal.

Elana purses her lips in thought, staring up at the ceiling. Overall, she did better than expected. She lasted three days before her withdrawal symptoms were so intense that she dragged herself to the corner store and impatiently huffed several cigarettes before sitting down on the floor in a nicotine daze. Another, after a phone call with her mother, had felt necessary. One immediately following was out of shame. Her willpower had won out the other times. 

“I expect you to answer my questions promptly.” Solas chides, his hand is outstretched, grasping for the paddle. She thinks he’s made up his mind until he relaxes and leans back again. 

“—six,” She admits without remorse. She’s almost proud of the number, considering how high the number usually is. So high she never bothered to count except with a tally of how many packs she was buying a week. 

It is the wrong answer, and Solas goes silent again. A hand flickers to his mouth, and then he rubs his palm over his bald scalp. He’s thinking so deeply that Ellana thinks she can see his thoughts pulsating like little bits of light cascading about the room. She’s half-convinced she can see the pool in the corners of the room. 

“There are worse punishments than pain,” Solas announces without preamble. He reaches down. And Ellana mirrors the gesture, thinking he was about to offer her a hand up. Instead, startled when he grabs her hair in his fist and pulls her, releasing her to stumble forward towards the table with a soft cry. “You would have gotten the paddle if you had answered with more enthusiasm.” 

Ellana’s hands reactively cover her chest as she regains her balance, and Solas pulls them down, so she’s exposed again.

“One week, and you’ve already violated the contract without a single consideration,” Solas says, beginning to pace around her. His face has turned so menacing that Ellana flinches, his eyes catch hers looking down at the paddle. “No,” he appraises. There is some elation to it, she thinks, mutually shared. Her blood is coursing through her flushed body at the prospect of being caught. It’s a game, she reminds herself, and she can play it just as well as him. 

Ellana opens her mouth to protest, to apologize, and Solas simply shakes his head. “Do you have something constructive to say? If not, I suggest you stay quiet.” 

Ellana stutters. There is something terrible but erotic about this. As if her words were taken away until she’s reduced to nothing but her body. She’s gone soft and malleable when Solas corrects her stance. Standing up as straight as she can as a mea culpa. She’s still staring down at the paddle, and Solas laughs into her ear as he smooths down her hair. His hands pull down her tights, and she dutifully steps out, his hands running up between her legs, his fingers play at the lace edging on her panties, and then snatch them down her wobbling knees revealing the wetness that’s been gathering all night. 

Elliana is drawn to cover herself again but is interrupted by Solas scooping her up and setting her down on the table. He’s already taken out soft rope and is tethering her hands over her head. The table is an anchor to her wriggling limbs. He spreads her legs and fixes them open. She still can’t help but resist the last part, something he notes with a smack on the inside of her thighs. The pain is more pronounced than last time. Smarts. “Be good,” he scolds. Ellana is desperately trying to guess what comes next. Drawing a blank makes her nervous. She’s watching her breasts shake as her breathing deepens. 

She’s surprised when she feels Solas’ touch soften on her body once he’s finished tying her up. For a time, he simply strokes her soft curves—almost tenderly—until she’s quieted again. His eyes narrow as he pulls out a thin metal rod from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. It’s the same shape as a cigarette but a little longer. It's bronze with a pink silicone tip on one end. It almost looks like jewelry, a hole at the top large enough for a long chain to pass through. Ellana’s not certain how it can be threatening, but judging from the glint in Solas’ eyes, it will make her suffer. 

“I bought this especially for you.” He exclaims proudly, clicking the device on and then dragging in a straight line between Ellana’s breasts. A vibrator. “I thought it would drive this particular lesson home.” 

Ellana nods and then remembers, “Thank you, sir.” 

“Oh, so good when you make an effort,” he stops to trace her cheek, his eyes admiring, “yet lacking in discipline. Now that I have your full attention, please remind me of what the contract stipulates about coming.” 

Ellana knows the rule. Her face is red at having to repeat it. When they were talking at the restaurant, she had been able to nod. She hadn’t imagined this particular demand: having to speak things out loud. It shouldn’t embarrass her, but it does—and she’s not sure if it should worry her that Solas has caught on to the most efficient ways to make her squirm. Worried that the realization makes the coil between her legs tighten even more. 

She begins to speak and then bites back the words before Solas taps the table in exasperation. 

“Your inability to answer my questions does not bode well for you, little one.” 

“I am not to—sir.” Her entire body is flushed at the admittance. 

“That’s not an answer,” Solas dismisses. 

Ellana inhales sharply. She’s beginning to reactively wriggle, and the ropes obstruct any movement except the arch of her back and for her to turn a bit side-to-side. She gasps at the realization, only to feel the weight of Solas’ hand stroking the swell of her hip bone, up over her belly, and then down again in a pleasant rhythm. The touch calming her to stop resisting the bindings. 

“Do you want to try again?” He says—this time with an ounce of repressed compassion. 

“Not before you say, sir.” It lacks the bluntness that he wants, but it's accurate. 

“If you manage it,” Solas pauses, absently clicking the small vibrator on and off, “Which, I will warn you, is speculative at this point. You won’t sit for a week.” Elliana considers the threat. Think she might prefer it. Tries to draw her thighs close around the vibrator the moment she can, only to find her efforts thwarted by the ropes. The act of disobedience earns her a chuckle. It’s such a pitiful attempt that Solas doesn’t even attempt to scold her before boring the small sex toy between her wet thighs. 

Ellana is reminded of a book she read once on how symphonies and other orchestral movements are structured. It is advisable, or so the text read, to start slowly and then build towards an overpowering refrain. Judging by the way Solas has worked her, he has also read this text. His touches started as slow. Languorous, the vibrator ghosting around the most sensitive parts of her body. It was enjoyable at first until he began to thrust it harder against her clit, bringing her close and then withdrawing the pressure entirely. 

Occasionally the vibrator is joined by his fingers slipping in and out of her. She tries to arch towards them when she can, only to learn that the moment she does Solas will remove them and go back to the soft touches. It’s agonizing. The constant state of arousal. Her toes curling, her breaths rising and falling with no relief. She started nodding her head back and forth nonsensically in concert with the moans that pass through her parted lips. It’s the only looseness in her now, the sounds, every other part of her is stretched trying to slam her thighs together around Solas’ possessive fingers so she might clench down on something different than nothingness.

It doesn’t take long for Solas to break her. She’s already begged to cum. She’s already begged for him to spank her instead. Begged for half-a-dozen things she’s not sure she wants. Anything else. She’s never begged for anything in her life. Never needed to. All of her pleading gets her nowhere. Solas merely tsks, sometimes stopping to run his fingers over her body. Ellana is touched-starved. Finally, puts a word to it. Has been for a long time. A wisp of touch to her is like a slap. And it’s agony to be overrun by sensation after so much self-imposed sterility suddenly. 

She suspects Solas knows this, is taking advantage of this. At one point in her life, Ellana was a lute player. A Dalish lute player. Every week she’d go to lessons with the rest of the reservations’ children. It was traditional. She was quite good at it, actually. Her fingers strumming out warbling songs somewhat on key. Winter was the hardest. The strings would become brittle, and it only took a few twists of the tuning peg before they’d snap in the cold air. Solas has slipped two fingers inside her again. She’s so wet—dripping onto the table now—it isn’t hard, and he’s expertly twisting in the same motion against her most erogenous spots. He’s going to snap her as quickly as the lutestring. Fraying her through so little effort. He’s so placid still, even with her pleading, his face cold and impenetrable like winter. 

The metal vibrator is the worst part. Solas was right. The shape is so reminiscent of a cigarette. All she can picture is someone extinguishing a butt on her skin. Solas is passing it faintly over her clit, careful not to apply too much pressure given how close she is, but it still feels like a bit of burning ember. She’s not sure she can put a cigarette to her lips without making the association—however loosely. It hurts, and before she knows it, tears are streaming down her cheeks. 

“I promise not to smoke again, sir.” She declares in-between gasping sobs. She’s not sure why she is crying, exactly. The tears are flowing in torrents now. She almost believes the statement, despite thinking she might be in the same predicament next week. Solas removes his hands, and she begins to sob even harder when he sets the metal bit down on the table, thinking he might leave her entirely. “I’m so sorry, sir, for the cigarettes.” She’s not sure how she manages to choke out the words. 

She’s shaking by the time the ropes are unwound. Huge violent shudders make her entire body quake violently. She’s reaching up, trying to grasp anything—gain purchase on something concrete—the sudden freedom of movement is hard to comprehend. She’s relieved, but her whole body is still on fire. She thinks to reach between her legs in open rebellion, is close to doing so, but is swept up again by Solas, her arms wind around him in an embrace as she cries about how sorry she is into his chest; clinging to him as his hands roam over her slick form in comfort. 

She’s not sure who she is apologizing to or what it is for. Thinks it might be for the whole of this last terrible year. All the moments she failed, twisting together like a lump of clay to be remolded. 

She’s babbling about cigarettes into the soft cloth of Solas’ shirt. He’s stroking her hair and shushing her. “It’s alright, you were so good,” he says to her over and over again before gradually laying her down on the hardwood floor. She grasps for him, and he guides her to lay down again. She’s muttering now. Babbling. Attempting to say thank you. Nothing comes out that resembles words as Solas kisses a reassuring line down her belly. She tries to pull away. It’s an automatic response. Solas’ steady hands tighten on her thighs; he’s speaking to her in turn. She doesn’t hear any of it except for _you may come now, Ellana._ She gasps at a faint swipe of his tongue across her core summons her to orgasm. 

“You’re beautiful,” Solas declares as the water ran over Ellana’s shoulders. In response, she dipped her face into the stream, arching her hair back with a coy smile on her face. The expression is involuntary. She wasn’t sure if she should say thank you or not. Catching his eye, she realizes Solas is in earnest. “I mean it,” he repeats with a soft laugh.

Solas was standing outside of the shower this time. Fully dressed, his shirt unbuttoned one too low. The sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbow so he could reach into the water and scrub her body. Still pristine, still somehow clean. The caddy attached to the wall is filled with expensive soaps, the scent of lavender hangs in the air, and Ellana is euphoric all the more for it. She’s giddy. Almost high 

“Did you want to join me?" She stares at Solas expectantly. She wants him to wrap his arms around her like he had that first night and stand under the hot water for hours. She’s starting to realize he’s pulling back. Keeping himself at a distance. She’s not sure if it’s subconscious or not. It’s still hard not to take it personally. 

“Next time.” Solas laughs. He’s holding a white towel out for her and makes a show of drying her off, his fingers kneading her aching muscles in the process until she’s practically rubbing against him like a cat in heat. He indulges her for a bit, his hands warming her goosebumps skin until he pulls her onto the floor again to hold her against his chest in a way that makes her feel young and safe. He completely surrounds her. 

“Was it too much?” Solas asks somberly, his breath tickling her neck, his hands are weaving through her still damp hair. His voice has changed since the sessions. It’s quieter, bordering on tenderness. A duality Ellana has yet to parse out. She hadn’t thought of too much or what that might mean. She’s still buzzing. Her mind cleared for once. 

“Are you going to ask that every time?” 

“It’s important to me that you are cared for.” Solas chirps into her ear. His voice was higher than it had been all night. 

Ellana shakes her head and then announces out loud. “No, it wasn’t too much.” 

“I worry you are someone who holds things in rather than talk about them,” Solas admits more forcefully. It’s true. She is. 

“No, I would tell you—” Ellana insists despite not believing she would. Knows she should just confirm otherwise. “This wasn’t too much.” 

“Good,” Solas hums. Some more time passes as Solas strokes her hair and slowly helps her rise and collect her clothing. He pulls each piece back onto her body, guiding her hand to his shoulder for stability when he draws up the tights around her legs, and then It feels more intimate—even more possessive— in a way, for him to slip her dress back on over her head than it was when she took it off. A realization Ellana isn’t sure what to make of. They aren’t dating—aren’t even exclusive—but somehow still lovers. Or at least an approximation of it. 

Ellana slumps down on the padded bench. It’s more of a fainting couch, really, and she lays on her side, her head propped up by one of the armrests. Solas joins her, pulling out his bag from the side of the divan, and much to Ellana’s astonishment, takes out a few ripe oranges. Ellana is convinced she’s never seen a citrus fruit so large and watches with rapt attention as Solas unpeels it and begins to hand her the slices one-by-one. She accepts them gratefully. Knows she should eat. Is flattered that Solas had thought of this small detail. 

“The club has food but—” 

“—it’s not very healthy.” Ellana finishes the sentence for him with an ease that shocks her after so much ambiguity. It’s mostly sugary granola bars, wormy apples, and crackers and cheese paste behind the bar. Things she’d only eat in the apocalypse. 

“Yes,” Solas laughs. 

“What are you editing this week?” Solas asks. She’s taken aback by the question. That he was so curious about her writing. Mainly because they hadn’t talked about their everyday lives in any great detail. The things she knows about this man that she’s let torture her—prove to her that yes, there are punishments worse than pain—could fit into a compact paragraph. She’s not sure what the boundaries of their dynamic are if she should expect more than this. Or if she wants to. 

“History,” She says. “Very dry. A translation of an old Dalish priest talking about the Dales.” 

“Oh,” Solas says. It’s clearly an answer he didn’t expect. “Do you—.”

“They give me the Dalish books because I am,” Ellana admits with a wry laugh. It had frustrated her at first, but eventually, the text at hand is simply that. A vessel with someone else’s story. She doesn’t have to be invested in it, only to nudge it into coherency. Still, the subject of her heritage isn’t something she likes to talk about. Too much irrelevant unhappiness. So she changes the subject.

“What time is it?” She asks. 

Solas laughs into her ear. It’s a friendly sound. “Sometime after ten. Do you have somewhere to be?” 

“No,” Ellana admits. She’s finished two oranges and shakes her head when Solas offers her the last. “I just didn’t know how—.” It had been at least three hours since she had entered the playroom with Solas. She thought it had to be a record. If not for him, then for her. Not of her sexual endurance but of her ability to concentrate on the present moment. 

“Almost your bedtime—” Solas begins to tease.

“Do I get an exemption if you are the cause of my lateness?” Ellana laughs. It’s easygoing. The joke. It’s the first one she’s genuinely made since Cullen died, and the realization makes her freeze. Another betrayal. To say such a thing in the arms of another man. She’s flashing back to the diamond ring, the funeral—and the gloom that’s gripped her ever since. She can feel Solas adjusting his embrace. He’s pulling back, his arms slacken. Whole images of the past are suddenly as tangible to Ellana as the feeling of Solas’ heartbeat underneath her cheek cycling like an old film. 

“Are you alright?” He asks with rushed concern, adjusting her to look up at him. The graze of fingers on her cheek. 

Ellana clenches her eyes shut. She counts to at least five and then opens them with a smile. “I’m fine. It was—I’m not sure what it was.” 

Solas nods. She can tell by the way his gaze grows more intense he’s not fooled. 

“I should probably go home.” She says with insistent awkwardness. She wants to be alone. To recover some part of herself again from her memories. She's shamed a bit, to think she might have ruined the evening. 

“I will walk you.” 

She thinks to push back at first. The words are about to come to her lips, and then Solas gives her a pointed stare. She relents with a nod—decides it's a way to show Solas, at the very least, that its not him that's the problem—and they exit the club undetected except for a nod in Bull’s direction. Solas asks if he can touch her when they are in the alley, and the question makes her laugh, _of course._ He places a hand on the small of her back and leads her over the streets towards the bus stop. She has to guide him the extra steps to the vestibule of her apartment building. Ellana takes out her keys. She debates if it would be polite to invite Solas inside. Wonders what it would be like to sleep next to him. She looks back and forth between the key and Solas with great uncertainty. 

He puts a hand on hers, decides for her. “Not tonight. Please send me a text message when you’re in bed.” 

She nods dutifully. 

"You can call if you need to," Solas says. With urgency. "It doesn't—that is." His voice trails off. Ellana should ask him to clarify, but she doesn't need to. Something about the tone is revealing of buried feelings. The ambiguity a protective layer between them. Something she can give him. 

"I will." 

Solas kisses her softly on the corner of the mouth. His first of the evening. “Be good.” 

  
  



	7. seven

**seven**

The attic where Dorian makes art is located on the top floor of the club, above the spacious second-floor condo he and Bull share. It’s a dense bricolage of paint tubes and swishy fabrics. There is one clean wall where Dorian paints over an electric blue tarp. Right now, a freshly gessoed canvas hangs, reflecting the pristine noon light streaming in from an overhead skylight. 

Ellana admires the white blaze for a moment, only to immediately set down her slouchy purse and wordlessly retrieve a roll of garbage bags from the downstairs supply closet. The current state of Dorian’s studio was a health hazard. 

“There are at least six months worth of these fucking cups.” Ellana wrinkled her nose as she examined a molding paper cup of what was coffee. It was from the gas station around the corner. Glaucous globs collected at the bottom, framed by a ring of evaporated brown. “Why do you always go so long between picking up your studio?” 

Dorian shrugged as he scooped up mounds of garbage tangled within the dense labyrinth of art supplies and stacked canvases. He was wearing a paint-smeared tank top and loose drop-crotch pants. A pair of gigantic over-the-ear headphones hung around his neck. 

“I’m just not a real person without you.” Dorian jokes; his tone is mocking, but she knows he’s overjoyed for her presence. They were, if Ellana were honest, co-dependent at times. Certainly as fellow creatives. 

For years, after they met in their early twenties working at a dive bar, Ellana and Dorian spent a few afternoons a week working on their projects together. He painted while she wrote. Occasionally she’d clean. Ellana suspects Dorian hadn’t made any attempt to do so since the last time she’d been there—before Cullen died. 

For a while, the only sounds in the room are the creaking of the wood floor, the whoosh of soft plastic bags accepting trash into their bowels, and Dorian humming to the music playing out of the headphones still hanging around his throat. 

It feels good to Ellana to put everything into order—as if she can right at least one thing that went to waste in her grief. 

“So, are you going to hang out here again now that you have club _activities_?” Dorian interrupts in a salacious tone, haphazardly placing art supplies in miscellaneous bins. He isn’t looking at her, but Ellana can see the broad upturn of his mouth grinning. 

Ellana had steeled herself for the question. Perhaps not this specific one, but something like it. She was glad, actually, to have Dorian ask it. She required an expert. He was always more than willing to be one on any topic. 

“Not purposefully. You don’t need to be coy. I know you’ve been gossiping. he told me.” 

“Creators, you _are_ his sub. Bull mentioned you’d—wait, I’m not going to pry.” Dorian exclaimed, unchastened, throwing up his hands as if to deny any possibility of him doing any sort of meddling.

“I don’t know,” Ellana says honestly, bristling a bit at Dorian’s terminology, and the ownership it implied. “It's a bit confusing?” 

“Is that a question?” 

“Yes. I don’t know what is going on between Solas and I. What to call it—” 

“It can be whatever you want it to be as long as it's consensual.” Dorian replies with a flourish. .“Do you like him? You don’t always have to do sex stuff—you know that, right?” 

Ellana didn’t know. She was certain she did, in fact, like Solas. It was the apparatus of their togetherness which she didn’t understand. Were they dating? They texted throughout the week but spoke of nothing meaningful. She sent a daily report before bed about what she ate and usually received a terse response commenting that she didn’t eat enough or another asking if she had smoked that day. Sometimes, only an _ok._ Solas had told her when they parted last that she was welcome to call—but what would she say? 

“This might be a wild idea, but you could talk to him if something isn’t working out. He’s such a bland suit. I’m sure he’d listen very attentively to your every desire in and out of the dungeon.” 

Ellana rolled her eyes at the dig. “It will work out.” 

“If you say so,” Dorian shrugged. Turned back to sorting. 

After filling at least five bags of garbage, Ellana settled into her old spot on a stained floral couch, taking out a cheap notebook to jot down words in. She hasn’t found the thread of her second novel. Things come to her about the past year, and she lets them drift through her onto the page. It was almost too painful before, like looking directly at the sun, and now its hurt is lessened a bit. Her psychologist had insisted this would happen. Suggested writing would help, but Ellana hadn’t believed her until that moment. 

Dorian lights a joint. Offers her a toke, and she takes it. Chokes a bit and hands it back. According to the contract, she’s not supposed to do drugs, but Ellana thought she’d reward herself for not smoking a cigarette outright. As far as she can understand, she’ll be punished for something—might as well be this. 

“Josie invited me to the gallery tonight—some sort of event,” Dorian says, holding up his phone as if Ellana could make out the small texts flashing across the screen. “She didn’t know if you'd want to come—” 

Ellana knew all about the opening. She had helped Josephine cobble together the text over the phone when the gallerista called her in a panic after forgetting her deadline. _It’s all the wedding planning. I forgot._ It was a solo exhibition of an artist that Dorian had once slept with in Minrathous. Josephine had made use of that connection as well to secure the celebrity. 

“Ok,” she says. It’s a little braver than she feels. “I’ll come.”

“Well, well,” Dorian huffed. “You _are_ feeling better. Is it the redemptive power of rough sex?” 

Ellana pinches the bridge of her nose and groans at the gross accuracy of the statement. “I think you just want to be right, not supportive.” 

Dorian flashed her a smug smile and lit his pipe. 

“I’m glad you’re coming, by the way—Josephine. I can’t wait to tell you this—” His voice trailed off as he hung his head with a mixture of mirth and annoyance. 

“Are you two fighting?” Ellana finds herself caring for the first time—in a long time—about her friends’ current drama. 

Dorian and Josephine have a love-hate relationship. They are petty and superficial in all the same ways, and these qualities tend to repel and attract them simultaneously. Ellana could barely keep up with the shifting territories even when she was paying them extravagant attention. She has no idea where they currently stand—can’t even begin to guess. 

“She asked me to plan her bachelorette party. Thought we could host it here at Ataash.” 

“Creators.” Ellana shakes her head. It is always amazing to hear what Josephine does and doesn’t understand about the world. “She probably just wants to wear costumes.” 

“Well, Bull and I will figure something out.” Dorian laughed, taking another deep inhale of fragrant weed before handing the pipe to Ellana, who gladly partakes. 

“That’s generous.” She observes after exhaling the smoke. 

“I try,” Dorian said. 

For the remainder of the afternoon, she fills a legal pad up with old recollections. Around dinner time, Dorian and Ellana go downstairs so he can shower and change. She lay in the living room, disappearing amongst the hyperbolic headlines and missed typos in a lifestyle magazine. A bag of trail mix sits to her left, and sometimes she mindlessly shoves a small handful into her dry mouth. 

Dorian exits the bathroom in a black velvet suit from a thrift store—his bronzed abs revealed underneath by the lack of a shirt. He’ll be cold but doesn’t care. Ellana looks down at her bland outfit (a nude-colored sweater and straight black pants that shouldn’t be loose) and decides that going out at all is an achievement, even if she’s not stylish enough for the event. 

Dorian is terribly high. Ellana buzzed. 

It’s hard to get out of the door without laughing stupidly in the crisp air. For a moment, the world is enormous and happy. They skip, arms linked down the stretch of the alleyway while Dorian makes vulgar joke after joke. He’s performing for her. Something about blood rituals and melting condoms makes very little sense but is very funny to Ellana in her renewed zeal for life. When they reach the main stretch, she’s doubled-over, snorting with laughter until she sees a familiar set of shoes. 

Ellana doesn’t have to look very hard to realize it’s Solas. She doesn’t have to look that much more closely before recognizing the woman standing next to him as his client. It makes her immediately want to flee or at least shrink away. Dorian catches her hand, squeezes it. It’s all that keeps her standing. 

“Oh, hi Solas,” Dorian says, waving. Solas waves back with an expressionless face. Ellana stiffly copies the gesture. The woman’s expression becomes puzzled when she sees who she must assume are delinquent bartenders. It’s a beautiful face—lips and cheeks perfectly anointed with red lipstick and blush. 

Ellana finds it disorienting to see Solas in daylight and even more disorienting to see him with another woman. It wasn’t that he was hiding it from her. When they had reviewed the terms of their contract, he had made it very clear that he took a handful of paid sessions at the club. _Unless it made sense_ , _or she objected,_ Solas said, _he’d like to keep the relationships_. _Sense?_ Ellana had blurted out in response. _A deepened relationship, for instance._ Solas had responded placidly. She could tell by the twist of his mouth that he doubted they’d reach that point, so she had only tacitly nodded. 

Solas’ client is not certain what is going on but can tell by the way that Ellana is staring at her that something is off and that she’s the source of it. 

“I’m sorry if you overhead that joke,” Dorian exclaims as if this were the source of awkwardness. “It was _very_ stupid.” 

The woman’s large smile—revealing a set of perfect teeth—accepts that, yes, that must be it. She pulls her expensive white coat with a fur-lined hood around her a little more tightly.

“Next week?” The client says to Solas, who responds with a placid yes that devastates Ellana. They exchange a few more pleasantries. Ellana can see Solas clutching his hands a little tensely at his waist before his client kisses him on the cheek. “Yes, take care.” 

The woman exits the alley, and the three remaining bodies gaze at each other uncomfortably.

“We are going to a gallery show a friend of ours helped curate.” Dorian blurts out before Ellana can stop him. It’s obvious he’s high. The words come out slowly as if he’s wrestling with temporality. “Do you want to come, Solas?” 

Ellana freezes. Solas cocks his head. He’s smiling. It’s a polite one that does little to hide his surprise at the invitation. “That is kind of you, but—.” 

“Ellana did all the exhibition text.” Dorian presses. Ellana wasn’t sure how Dorian knew of her involvement with that particular detail. Or why he thought the revelation would compel Solas to join them. 

“It’s ok—you probably have plans.” Ellana sheepishly begins. She’s playing with the edges of her pockets. She wants a cigarette as much as she wants Solas to come along. Considering she hasn’t smoked in a little less than a week, it's a great want. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose it, of course,” Solas says, face neutral. Eyes fixed on Ellana. She can’t tell if he’s searching her face for a clue as to what she desires or simply trying not to appear judgemental. The alleyway is spinning—a mixture of her nervousness and the drugs—and it makes it harder for her to tell what the answer might be.

“Another time—” Ellana protests. Dorian makes a conspiratorial giggle, and Ellana worries that Solas must think them both juvenile. That they have somehow planned this encounter. The elegant attire he’s wearing makes her feel small and inadequate to be caught high in an alleyway. He’s regally dressed in a charcoal suit, and except for the missing tie, looks as if he was on his way to a board meeting. He’s lazily carrying a wool coat on one arm, the inside a plaid pattern Ellana recognizes as an expensive brand—the kind that someone accomplished would wear. 

“I could drive you at least?” Solas cheerfully offers, holding up his car keys. 

“Yes, please.” Dorian shamelessly answers. 

It did not take much encouragement from Dorian for Solas to join them inside the gallery. They walk in right at the start. Too early to be cool, but a part of Dorian he’ll never admit to wants to look at the work before the guests start to filter in. Ellana doesn’t mind. Neither does Solas, who is concentrating on the largest piece on the back wall. It’s a square canvas with color glazes built up to a rich black that scintillates like an oil slick underneath the gallery lights. 

“The artist believes that layered textures demonstrate a sense of geologic time, thus causing the viewer to be drawn into a sort of universal mythology,” Ellana explains to him. “Apparently, the pigments used ancient Teveinter recipes used in prehistoric rituals.” 

Her voice drifts off as Dorian squeals seeing the artist and the two men kiss each other exuberantly on the cheeks muttering in rapid Tevene. The light has grown more concentrated. Ellana is pretty sure that she can spot several different rainbows cascading on the cement floor and is pulled to watch them. 

“Is that so?” Solas says. His stance softens, and for a moment, a coil of tension erupts in her belly. In a way, she is relieved to see his great interest in what she has to say. He moves up to read the didactic and turns back to look at her with an arched eyebrow.

“These are well-written.” His voice doesn’t contain surprise, just fact and admiration. 

“Thank you.” Ellana blushes. She didn’t think she was shy before. Her speech is a bit slurred. She hadn’t smoked a lot recently, and the drugs are hitting her hard. All she wants to do is impress Solas. 

“You’re high, aren’t you?” Solas guesses. His expression as he says it isn’t forthcoming except for a slight upturn of his mouth. Ellana recoils a bit. She’s not sure how Solas will react to the discovery that she’s been actively and willfully disobedient. Or why she might totally care about compliance. 

“I-I. Yes.” There isn’t a point in denying it. 

“Creators, you and Dorian were funny in the car ride. Fighting to remain perfectly still and polite but also captivated by the passing cars—as if they were of great import.” 

“I’m sorry—I know its breaking a rule” 

Solas laughs good-naturedly, and the sound confuses Ellana further. He reaches to tuck a piece of escaped hair from Ellan’s ponytail behind her ear. His fingers lingering a bit longer than necessary. “I appreciate the admission.” 

“Ellana,” Josie’s ebullient voice interrupts as she runs over to pull Ellana in for a wet kiss on her cheek. “I’m so excited you made it. This is so great—.” 

Josephine is followed by Cassandra, who appears equally excited at her unexpected attendance. Both women balk at seeing Solas standing next to her. He’s close enough that there is no mistaking that the two are together. 

“This is—my friend.” Ellana makes an effort to frame his presence. “Solas.” 

Solas gives a professional nod, reaching out his hand to introduce himself. It’s all very civil, the following introductions and the conversation. Josephine simply hurtles into a tangent about the exhibition, and Solas generally nods along as Cassandra glowers at him. Blackwall arrives a few minutes later and slaps him on the back in greeting. 

When Solas excuses himself to get a glass of water, asking if Ellana wants anything, Cassandra pulls Ellana aside and asks how old he is, exclaims that generally, older men are often predators. When Ellana asks her to clarify if Cassandra believes Solas to be a predator, the actuary denies it but scowls unambiguously in his direction. Ellana doesn’t want to know what Cassandra would say if she knew about the real arrangement.

Solas returns handing Ellana a water bottle. She takes it. Doesn’t realize at the time that he’ll insist on her drinking three more before the night wraps up. 

The gallery opening isn’t long—only an hour or so. Ellana is swept up in old friends excited to see her and introduces Solas, who stands quietly beside her observing everything. He sticks out amongst the crowd of thrift store outfits, and most of her acquaintances flash him suspicious glances throughout the night. 

“This isn’t really your thing is it?” Ellana mutters self-consciously. It used to not be her thing either, but for different reasons. The part of her who grew up poor who practiced speaking without a Dalish accent wasn’t sure how to act the first few openings Josephine dragged her to. She’s still awkward at them. Solas, on the other hand, looks to belong at a more polished event—a museum opening, or something prestigious. The mediocre gallery is trendy. Without the culture that he's probably used to. 

“Quite the opposite. I rather enjoy art,” Solas admits. “I paint. Nothing like this, a hobby.” 

“Oh,” Ellana says, unsure what to do with the admission. It’s the most revealing thing he’s said after his job. She digs her hands into her pockets. “That’s nice.” 

She’s surprised to feel Solas' hand on the small of her back as he comes next to her to stare at another painting in soundless appreciation. It gives Ellana a strange sense of pride to have this elegant man do so in front of her friends—even if she's sure they don't know what to make of the coupling. 

“You didn’t need to stay,” Ellana says to Solas as the event ends. It’s snowing outside, and the ground is crusted with white. A crowd is congregating outside the gallery space in their winter gear. It’s all scene. Josie and Dorian are sloppy drunk and fighting. Cassandra, also inebriated, is attempting to mollify them. She wanted to tell Solas it isn’t normally like this, but she’s wondering if it really is after so long away. 

“Would you want to go with them?” Solas asks with some reluctance. He’s watching the gaggle of drunk twenty-somethings cling to one another as Dorain, the ring leader, bursts out into an off-tune song announcing his choice of bar while Josephine contradicts his choice in a shrill scream. 

“No. Not at all.” It comes out forceful enough that Solas smiles in open relief. 

“I can take you home if you like?” 

Ellana appreciates the gesture. The thoughtfulness. She doesn’t protest, makes her excuses to her friends, and gives an efficient nod to Solas that it's time to leave. On the walk over to his car, Ellana waits for Solas to put a hand on her lower back and guide her over the lumps lurking underneath—but he doesn’t. He merely takes out his keys and clicks a button so that his car beeps in the empty air. It echoes. 

“Now that Master Pavus is not spying on our every word, I wanted to ask about earlier,” Solas said the moment he put the car into gear and carefully pulled onto the road. “I didn’t think about the possibility of you running into a client. I know it is different in the abstract.” 

Ellana isn’t sure why he’s asking. They had an agreement. To her, it was straightforward. At least, that is what her rational part said. Her ego felt bruised a bit, if only again to compare herself to the polished woman she had found Solas with. She was increasingly finding it harder to understand Solas’ interest in her. 

“It was ok, really,” Ellana says. She can’t help that her body turns away to look out the other side of the window, into the swirling air. It’s an invitation, she knows, to be open. One she should reciprocate.

"I didn't realize you and Dorian were as close.I should have expected—" 

“I don’t mind.” 

Solas' breathing momentarily increased. A subtle crescendo. Does he want her to mind? 

“I was glad to run into you. I was going to ask if you wanted to spend some time—”

“—not punishing me?” Ellana says in a rush. She meant it as a joke. Only it comes out abruptly—a pointed rejection. 

Solas sobers. Another sharp inhale. “It's fine if you just want that—” 

“No, I’m sorry.” Ellana stutters. It feels accusatory. She crosses her arms and pulls herself into a compact heap in the passenger seat. “That was a poor attempt at humor. I’m out of practice.” 

He doesn’t respond. Only gives one forced laugh. Ellana turns to stare out the window again. 

“You have nice friends,” Solas observes after a few awkward, lingering moments of silence. “It seemed like they were happy to see you—like you haven’t been out like that for a while?” 

“No, I haven't,” she observes. “Not really since Cullen died.” 

She realizes it's the first time she’s spoken his name to Solas. For a moment, the acknowledgment summons back memories of when she and Cullen were first dating. It was a night like this. They had met at a party that Josephine was hosting. A college party with red solo cups. He was working for the government as an intern and had come as an accident. He was glad to find a sober friend to talk to, and he and Ellana had kissed for the first time before dawn. Ellana had almost forgotten the happy moment. 

“If it helps—and you feel comfortable—you can talk about him. Solas says, his eyes carefully on the road, his voice revealing more care than Ellana thought she was worth.

“Thank you,” Ellana responds politely in a quiet voice. “That’s kind.” 

Solas nods his head, neither yes or no. The car halts at a spotlight. They are the only car out on the road. Her body drifts back towards him. “I’m glad you like them. My friends.” The moment it comes out, Ellana regrets the statement, worried it might make Solas think she is pressuring him in some undefined way. She almost slips and almost adds _I liked that you were there._

Solas’ smile returns, almost as if he can sense the unspoken admission, and for a bit, they argue over the radio. He teases her about her taste in music, switches it back to the news station in jest, and then back again. 

He parks across the street from her apartment building. The snowplow had made its way through, and the area was mostly clear. The car is still running. Solas leaned his head slightly towards her as if to say something, and instead, they kiss. It’s an open mouth kiss—all tongue and wild. Solas had only slightly inclined his head forward, and instead, they met in the middle. His hands began to reach into the opening of her jacket; in return, she ran her hands over the stubble of his scalp. 

Her elbow hits the horn of the steering wheel as Ellana thinks to move to straddle Solas. The sound causes Solas to pull back slowly. Ellana doesn’t. He says her name, repeats it at a whisper as if discovering it for the first time. His smile is soft. It’s an expression that’s never surfaced in the club. She doesn’t say anything, only folds her hands on her lap. Waits for Solas to give a direction, Solas plucks the keys out of the ignition. For a moment, Ellana thinks he might suggest coming up—freezes at the thought. Isn’t sure what to do about it. 

“Only to the door,” Solas proclaims as if he read her mind. A talent she is beginning to suspect he has. 

He exits the car and runs around to open her door before she can. He walks with his hands in his pocket, his suit jacket turning up attractively like a bird tail. Solas watches with detached interest as she fishes her keys out of her bag, leans in again to kiss her softly on the corner of her mouth, and then adds another possessive kiss along her jawline as she unlocks the door.

Ellana’s hands reach for his waist. He sways her body gently in the snow before she becomes self-conscious and reluctantly extracts her limbs. It’s a little heartbreaking to part, and she’s not sure where that feeling rises out of. 

“Sorry,” she says again, averting her eyes from his worried gaze into the lobby of her apartment building. 

“For what?” Solas says carefully. His voice is prayer-like. 

Ellana isn’t sure what to make of the statements—factually or emotionally. It’s hard to believe. Solas draws her in for another embrace, muttering it’s alright again into her snow-encrusted hair. 

When they formally say goodnight, Solas waits until she’s through the door and it is secure behind her to return to his car. Ellana makes her way up the three flights of stairs. Andraste howls as she unlocks the door and follows her from the kitchen and then to the bedroom as she peels off her clothes and watches unblinking on the open toilet as Ellana steps into a hot shower, wondering not for the first time what it would be like to welcome Solas to her apartment. 

It’s too late to pack any more writing in, so Ellana turns off the lights, climbs into bed, and dashes off a text to confirm her good behavior. She’s half-asleep when her phone buzzes and doesn’t reach to read the response. 

She wakes in the middle of the night. Disoriented. Limbs heavy. Ellana’s never sure where she is or what has happened. The realization that Cullen is dead always hits her in her first movements in the bed when she doesn’t brush up against him. The part of her that feels as if she’s betrayed him kicks in shortly thereafter. Without fail, something like a sob surfaces in her chest. She simply pushes it down. 


End file.
